


Memento Mori

by HDHale



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Argent Ancestry, Dead Allison Argent, Drinking, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Angst, Food, France (Country), Getting Together, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, M/M, Mild Gore, Multi, Murder Mystery, Nogitsune Trauma, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Peter Hale/brief and unseen other, Polyamory, Possession, Post-Nogitsune, Post-Season/Series 03, Slow Burn, Stiles Stilinski is Legal, Stiles Stilinski is Seventeen Years Old, Virgin Stiles Stilinski, mild eating disorder, unpacking all the shit these three have been through
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-01-16 15:47:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 28,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18524647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HDHale/pseuds/HDHale
Summary: To save Stiles being stuck at home, isolated all summer, and stewing on his recent possession and the deaths he’d caused, he agreed to the unexpected offer of joining Chris Argent for a retreat in France.What good Peter’s exile would do, Stiles was clueless.





	1. Memento Mori

**Author's Note:**

> A reimagining of canon set post 3B, where Chris takes Stiles and Peter to France with him instead. Done as an attempt to unpack some of the trauma and bereavement the three have gone through, as well as to explore them individually, as pairs, and a triad. This is set within a murder mystery and a reinterpretation of some later canon. Themes will be mature, explicit, morbid, but less gorey than canon.
> 
> Tags will be added along the way, though I've tried to be sparing for now. Feel free to ask questions if you are uncertain about reading. Be safe and take responsibility for yourselves, darlings. Happy reading!

Their journey had felt arduous, even though they’d been inactive for the most part of a day. Despite the drag of time it would leave them short of hours, due to touch down in New Jersey in the morning for their connecting flight, then in Europe the following morning after that. A double red-eye.

Stiles dozed intermittently, cheek resting against the gently shuddering shell of the plane cabin. He watched through the blur of his heavy lashes as pink tones bled across the whipped-up clouds below, as the sun rose high in the distance, no horizon visible. Despite the chill of air con, the illusion of warmth coaxed him into a false sense of temporary comfort, and he sunk into a deeper sleep every time his head lolled forward again. Everything felt stagnant and plastic in a similar sense to a hospital- another place out of time, so isolated. Chris had been understandably withdrawn in recent weeks, but even Peter was unusually quiet.

Stiles loathed flying and was never putting himself through the ordeal again. It was torturously dull and left him struggling to ignore intrusive concerns and memories since his recent possession only weeks before.

He drifted in and out of consciousness, stirring every so often to find Chris already waiting as he offered him a bottle of water, or revealing that he’d bought Stiles snacks and kept them ready for him. At one stage Chris must have draped his own wafer thin, complimentary blanket across Stiles’ splayed, skinny legs, as he woke up beneath two. The gesture touched Stiles and he smiled shyly as he thanked Chris, who barely addressed it with a grunt and tiny, though fleeting smile of his own.

More than once Stiles stirred to discover he’d flopped away from the cabin wall to instead pillow his head on Chris’ shoulder- but he accepted Stiles readily, not complaining about the dampness of drool Stiles found wetting the man’s shirt. Perhaps he didn’t notice, but Stiles suspected he was being polite and going easy on him. Stiles apologized just in case and tried to shuffle to the other side. Somehow, he kept ending up nuzzled against Chris, who reassured him it was fine. For Stiles it was a whole new side of Chris Argent that he imagined only Allison had seen before.

There was an almost instinctive and ever-present desire to care for Stiles from Chris. Perhaps it was the dull, long flight and filling the time, or maybe Allison’s recent and untimely death had left a void in his life that Stiles slotted into temporarily. He’d always been a hot mess and unable to care for himself, let alone his dad, and he was tired of fighting. He let Chris coddle him, allowed himself to be guided almost by the hand through the labyrinth of the airports. He hoped it would be beneficial for them both, but Stiles felt a sense of guilt for leaning on Chris and letting him pour all this very recent affection on him.

Stiles felt starved for it without ever having realized he’d been deprived.

It wasn’t that his own dad had been abusive or anything, but neglectful? Maybe the he had been a little in retrospect. It had always been complicated and blame was difficult to place. Stiles couldn’t recall much before his mom had been admitted, when he’d begun to understand the complexities of their family compared to others. Scott had been the only one to understand at the time and in a tragic way, it had been the thing which bonded them to one another. Melissa had been more present in Stiles’ life than his own mother, but it felt the same when it came to his father. Stiles understood.

Since Stiles’ possession, the Sheriff was working even harder to cover his recent medical bills. Despite the offer to do part-time work, the Sheriff had insisted Stiles had gone through enough and deserved to enjoy a proper summer vacation. Stiles’ arguments about work experience in law enforcement and helping chip in with his bills had all be rebuffed by the Sheriff. He saw it as his responsibility to shoulder the debt as Stiles’ parent.

So, to save Stiles being stuck at home, isolated all summer, and stewing on his recent possession and the deaths he’d caused, he agreed to the unexpected offer of joining Chris Argent for a retreat in France. Rather than being asked directly, Chris had gone to the Sheriff for permission, which Stiles suspected had been them meddling trying to help in his recovery and get him out of the hell hole that was Beacon Hills for a while. Stiles did hope he’d be able to clear his head, so that he could return in the fall for a fresh start with his final year of high school.

And to take some much-needed pressure off his poor, stressed dad, who looked reluctant to leave Stiles each night shift knowing his son was still jolting himself awake.

Stiles hoped it would be a vacation for them both.

What good Peter’s exile would do, Stiles was clueless. The werewolf had been given more fresh beginnings than he probably deserved, and Stiles had been the most sceptical when Derek let slip that Peter would be accompanying them to Europe as well. Derek had explained it away as Peter being unstable, despite apparently having aligned himself with the pack of late and being instrumental in rescuing Stiles from the Nogitsune. What Derek had picked up on went over Scott’s head as he brightly agreed that Stiles would be safe with Chris there, but to call if he needed anything or if Peter ‘tried anything’. Stiles couldn’t imagine himself burdening Scott with how hard he’d had it lately anyway. He was grateful since Allison’s funeral Scott and Isaac had been close once again, apparently having put aside any slight tensions in an understanding they were both hurting over the loss of a loved one.

However, whatever suspicions Derek had about Peter left Stiles suspicious about his intent within the pack. Peter was always skulking the fringes, ready to provide criticism or knowledge where necessary, but he was never quite accepted into the fold, even after fighting alongside them and saving their lives on multiple occasions. There was too much bad blood between Peter and almost all members of the pack. They each had justified reasons to be wary of Peter. Stiles always felt as though Peter was withholding something or had some secret machinations ongoing that even he had failed to spot, but he was always wary, as much as they tended to see eye to eye on most matters.

Stiles didn’t dare question what that said about him. The fox spirit that had crawled its way inside his mind had been delighted to find Stiles’ fascination and understanding with the morally ambiguous werewolf. He wasn’t even sure he distrusted Peter, because often Stiles thought to himself, he would have done the same in Peter’s designer shoes.

Even though allegedly recovered and sane, living life reasonably civilly if not piously, Peter was still treated as a constant possible threat by much of the pack. Stiles had never rid himself of the memory of Peter prowling towards him, on all fours like a wild thing over a paling Lydia, her blood on Peter’s hands as he guided Stiles to his feet and dragged him away from her the moment help was on the way. His breath had remained hot and bloody even as he pushed Stiles face down and draped himself half over the fragile human, breath gusting across Stiles’ buzzed hair to the shell of his ear. The whole event had felt primal and sensual in a way Stiles had never forgotten, rekindling whenever the two of them were alone. Peter did intimidate him, though not for the reasons most would expect. It was kind of twisted how much Stiles enjoyed it.

Despite all that, Stiles recognized the subtle changes in Peter. Never touching people uninvited, only suggesting resorting to violence when absolutely necessary and always ready to offer the most efficient solution first. He was pragmatic and cautious, uncaring about blood under his claws- and Stiles suspected Peter was probably mindful of appearing feral and untethered. Some of his cold words were entirely for show or to spark a reaction for his own amusement. Still, Peter offered his services to the pack as the red right hand, but he rarely resorted to bloodshed and was more prone in nudging things in his preferred direction and letting others take the risks he wasn’t willing to. Mostly he would be there as additional support in dire situations and was always quick to pitch in following Stiles’ own cold, calculated suggestions- as if he held his tongue and waited for Stiles to speak first. Stiles watched carefully and knew Peter to be a man of logic and cunning before a fighter, despite most still seeing him as the beast they’d first encountered. The pack had accepted him as necessary, tolerated him begrudgingly, but never quite accepted him as one of them.

Stiles wondered if the same fate as Peter awaited him once he returned. After all, how could Scott ever forget who was responsible for Allison's death? Peter hadn't quite made penance for Laura's death with Derek and yet remained in the pack. Stiles figured it was mostly due to Derek being so sentimental, too soft on what little family survived. There had been no blame placed on Stiles as he left, but little reassurance either. Maybe he’d find an ally in Peter on their trip and get an honest, blunt opinion.

Those anxious, intrusive thoughts rattled around in Stiles’ head throughout the journey often, the whole trip still feeling surreal to him. After another nap of indeterminate length, Stiles stretched out in his deep, expensively ticketed seat. His lower back popped in a pleasant kind of way as he pushed out his long limbs, cat-like as he spread and wiggled fingers and toes, rotating his wrists and ankles before lowering them.

“Do you need to move?” Chris asked, drawing in his long legs in preparation. He had a watchful eye on Stiles, as if trying to anticipate his needs. It was a kind of attention Stiles wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to. People generally didn’t dote on him, but he wasn’t about to complain. It was nice.

“Mm. Yeah.” Stiles huffed and scrubbed at his eyes, which watered from the cool, dry air, his throat feeling scratchy and hoarse. He didn’t feel entirely awake, but it was a long time since he’d felt well-rested either. He knew soon would be raring to dive into his old lacrosse backpack and dig out a puzzle book or his vintage Gameboy for a distraction, but first- “I gotta pee.” Stiles announced as he realized why he'd woken up so urgently. Chris had plied him with so much water to keep hydrated.

Clambering over Chris, Stiles felt his broad, gentle hands steady him by the hip and lower back to prevent Stiles from stumbling over. As soon as he was free, Stiles shot down the aisle, using the headrests of seats to keep him steady as he went, not thinking to check the bathroom light for availability. His hand reached the tug door handle before he heard the muffled, stifled gasps and moans of two people making the most of the boring flight.

He stepped back startled, the tiniest bit curious, but largely disgusted that two people couldn’t keep it in their pants long enough to reach terra firma. He left sharpish and headed for the stalls at the front of standard class instead.

By the time he’d relieved himself and made his way back, Peter had re-emerged, all spread out in his seat, looking languid and infuriatingly satisfied. He met Stiles’ narrowed eyes and slack mouth with a smirk, lifting his plastic cup filled with a crystal clear spirit with a wedge of lemon. The dart of Peter’s tongue across his lower lip before it met the rim of his cup left Stiles feeling suddenly parched.

“Ugh. Gross.” Stiles’ nose creased and his upper lip gave a nervous twitch. Sex was still one of those things he'd never really gotten to beyond that dumb, desperate incident with Malia that unfortunately couldn't be counted and was nothing to boast about as it had left him with nothing but a wet patch in his sweatpants and Malia looking humiliatingly relieved and indifferent to what had happened. It had been a close thing to an even more embarrassing mistake though. It didn’t count, Stiles decided, and it was never mentioned again between them. Stiles wasn’t even completely sure Malia recalled it at all it had been so uneventful.

He definitely couldn’t imagine being so brazen or cocky following sex the way Peter was behaving following his anonymous… make out, hand job, quickie, jerking off? Stiles’ head spun from the possibilities.

“Not you as well. You know, I could have helped you collect your mile-high club for beginners’ badge.” Peter pointed out, bordering on indecency. Plucking the lime off his plastic cup, Peter bit into it. His lips pursed and softening as he split and tore away the flesh of the fruit from the rind, bitter-sweet juice running down his chin. He ate it and finished with a slow drag of his tongue across his now incredibly plump lips. Stiles’ cock gave the tiniest of twitches at the realization they look swollen from being _used_. As a mere mortal man, he couldn’t be blamed for having a small reaction to such blatant provocation.

Peter washed down the bite of fruit, still licking his lips tantalizingly slow, leaving them even glossier and downright delectable. Stiles knew full well he was being taunted with and looked down at Peter scandalized to try to compensate his traitorous body’s response. His heart was racing thinking about how Peter had been getting intimate with a stranger only minutes earlier, a few feet away while Stiles slept through most of it. He couldn’t help but be curious about Peter’s stamina, about how he used those lips, about what he said to lure someone into such a cramped, unappealing space for something so fleeting and meaningless. Stiles looked around to try guess who it might have been but came up short as most people in first class had their blinds down and masks covering their eyes.

“So gross.” Stiles repeated even flatter. He held onto the back of Chris’ chair to steady himself as he rounded it, climbing back to his own seat. He dropped down and plumped up his pillow out of sheer frustration. He doesn’t fail to catch the way Chris turns around and behind his seat to stare Peter down, as if from the other end of a barrel.

“Oh, like _you’ve_ never, Christopher.” Peter tutted out of sight with an odd weight of familiarity, but Chris turned back and picked up the thick book he was reading without comment.

Somehow it didn’t come across as Chris is taking the high road exactly, but Stiles wasn’t able to place the mood when Chris’ face was unreadable as usual, his posture stiffer. He was missing something, he realized as he squinted back at Peter through the gap between their seats. Peter had gotten to Chris. Stiles sat back in his seat and studied Chris sideways to try work it out. There were a few extra lines there at the corner of his eyes and furrowing his brow lately, a darkness around his eyes Stiles knew was caused by a lack of sleep and grieving in private. He knew he shared the same haggard look that had strangers stop and ask him if he was feeling alright.

Not bold enough to ask what Peter was angling at and unable to work out what Chris was thinking, Stiles peered at the book pinched in Chris’ fingers instead. Other than the creased spine, the paperback had crisp pages, but was clearly read enough that the spine was well creased. A grayed, indeterminate cityscape was captioned with a bold, punchy title and the name of an author Stiles recognized. He guessed it was a detective story- one that his dad probably owned back home, flattering on the reader, easy to solve, with a satisfyingly tidy ending.

Stiles rubbed his cheek against his pillow and contemplated how his dad felt returning to work, knowing he’d be coming home to an empty house. He released his pillow with one hand, stubbing the fickle touch screen in front of him to call up the map and the clock to discover it was already evening back in Beacon Hills. The thought of the Sheriff not being able to come home to their usual daily catch up plucked at Stiles’ heartstrings, the ache lingering. Shutting his eyes and clutching onto his home-scented pillow, Stiles willed his tears away before they could form, wishing he could find excitement for what lay ahead.

The feeling became an increasing tension in his chest and migrated lower to turn his stomach.

He was jet lagged and felt sick towards the rocky end of their journey but was eternally grateful Chris was there to squeeze his hand. The amounting panic tightening his chest and making him fearful of vomiting became much more _threatening_ than the situation was in actuality. At that stage, Peter had leaned over and tapped Chris’ shoulder, saying something sharp and hissed to Chris that wasn’t even questioned.

They traded places and in the next instant Peter was beside him, running smooth, warm hands over his cool, clammy skin. Stiles raised his fuzzy vision up, panting through his mouth as he tried to make sense of things. The world felt upside down and narrow, the cabin too small, too high, too rocky.

Peter had draped an arm over his stiff shoulders and Stiles was tugged forcibly into Peter’s side, where he folded and tucked himself against his broad chest. He clung to Peter, buried into the silky soft shirt he was wearing, his breath shuddery as he attempted to bring it under control. It helped that Peter felt so solid and steadfast- a rock in turbulent seas.

There was the usual earth, spice and leather of Peter’s aftershave, something musky and masculine that Stiles found warming and soothing as he listened to the wolf’s mellifluous, hushed nothings. After a while Stiles’ breathing deepened and slowed. He slumped into Peter, heavy and shattered, allowing himself to be held. Peter still cooed at him, calling him sweet names and mumbling words of reassurance that were no doubt mocking, but Stiles couldn’t care and let the rumbling sound of Peter’s voice run over him. He let himself believe Peter cared and trusted he was in safe hands.

When Stiles was calm again, his panic reduce to the occasional sniffle as he levelled out, Peter explained how the same pain draining abilities could be adapted to reduce stress and how pack members could be effectively anchored by light grooming. 

“Has no one in the pack done this for you before during a panic attack?” Peter asked, brows raised and voice deceptively soft.

Stiles could only shake his head. He felt increasingly numb and confused at the look Peter gave him, close to pity and regret. Stiles’ eyes glazed over, too tired to keep up conversation or care for Peter’s arm trapped under his head.

“Just… hold me?” Stiles mumbled and Peter opened his arm out further to allow for him to settle back against him once more.

He let his head tilt onto Peter’s shoulder and the white noise of the now steady plane and tease of fingers in his hair had the most soporific effect on him. He was asleep again for good until the announcement they were due to descend.

\--

France wasn't immediately entirely alien as Stiles predicted. Everything at the airport was labelled in both French and English, but the immediate preference for the former and the bustle and urgency of crowds had Stiles feeling increasingly overwhelmed and overstimulated all over again.

Stiles had acquired a werewolf-shaped shadow ever since vacating the plane. As the panic crept on in the increasingly crowded airport, Stiles felt Peter sweeping up and down the subtle arch of his spine, between his shoulders to brush away the tension forming there. It felt so good Stiles couldn’t care less for how it looked to the crowds around them. Maybe people assumed Chris and Peter were a couple and Stiles their son- adopted, of course, because he resembled neither of the stunningly attractive men. Stiles wondered idly for the hundredth time how old Peter might be and hoped Chris could give him a straight answer at some point. There were only so many times he could ask Peter or within earshot before his fixation on his age became apparent. If he got lucky, he’d be able to sneak a look at his passport, but he wasn’t even sure that was reliable.

When his curiosity got the better of Stiles and he attempted to pickpocket Peter, he earned a gentle smack from Peter with his passport on the arm.

“Why, do you have an old passport photo or something? A mug shot?” Stiles grinned, chewing the straw of the sugary coffee drink he’d been bought to perk him up.

“Why would I be ashamed of aging? Beauty changes, but it doesn’t fade.” Peter answered smugly with his head held high.

Stiles twisted and gnawed the straw in his mouth in frustration before he could agree.

“Are you two the same age?” Stiles guessed, looking at Chris for an answer.

“Peter’s younger.” Chris supplied.

“Figures. He is the immature one.” Stiles grinned at the gentle hum of amusement from Chris and the scandalized look on Peter’s face.

He ducked out of Peter’s grasp when he attempted to pinch at his neck, scurrying to the other side of Chris. Without a word, Chris dropped his arm around Stiles’ shoulders, taking him under his protective wing the rest of the way.

A key for the rental car was waiting after they picked up their bags from the carousel. Peter complained obnoxiously about Chris’ choice of vehicle, even as he was taking the keys.

“You know I drive a _Shelby_ —”

“Yes, Peter. I know you drive the pretentious car of a man having a midlife crisis that you race like a reckless idiot.” Chris drawled, sounding longsuffering. He took Stiles’ heavy case from him to lay it in the trunk with their own things. “Anyone who’s spent five minutes with you knows you own two of them.”

Hearing Chris insulting Peter so dryly made Stiles snort unattractively, grinning at Peter who looked affronted and spread his arms to question why he deserved such treatment. He shook his head and made his way past Stiles.

“I’ll sit in the back. Stiles, you take the front. You’ll feel better riding shotgun with the AC. Besides, I like the feeling of being chauffeured.” Peter purred, squeezing Stiles right at the collar of his shirt as he slipped by. He took the back seat before anyone had chance to object.

Chris sighed, shoulders dropping for a moment before he remembered the task at hand. As he stretched up for the high door of the trunk, a sliver of skin around his midriff showed ever so briefly, but distracted Stiles entirely. He was incredibly toned compared to the other human men of Beacon Hills and there was a dusting of hair where he knew most of the werewolves were clean.

Suddenly Chris was stepping toward him, making him startle and lift his gaze. Chris was leaning into him even as he dropped his tone, smiling and Stiles’ heart pounded hard- uncertain if he’d been caught looking and Chris might laugh at him.

“Peter and his cars. You know what they say about guys compensating.” Chris winked and the easiness of it took Stiles by surprise.

“I can hear you!” Peter called out from inside the car.

Stiles was still giggling to himself as he clambered in. Chris waited patiently until he buckled up before pulling away. There was a long, unusual silence from Peter, who was no doubt brewing some sort of trouble. It came a few seconds later.

“Mm. Well, at least you _know_ that’s not true, Christopher.” Peter purred.

Stiles made a startled sound and had to assume it was that which startled Chris in turn. A near collision with someone pulling out their parking spot jarred it from his thoughts entirely.  
Peter had the audacity to offer to take the wheel.

\--

Driving from the airport, Stiles was immediately impressed by the stretches of colorful, creative and somehow unmistakably French graffiti sprawled alongside the roadside. Soon the roads cut through an entirely green, idyllic landscape, herds of cattle here and there, the odd farm building. Even the stretches of powerlines were different. Stiles perked up at the change, enjoying the open, fresh feeling of their surroundings even at a distance. It felt so much better than being up in the air.

If he could help it, he’d never fly again. At least, not without a werewolf pillow.

As they had a couple of hours drive, Chris pulled over at a small roadside farm with a café and farm shop. Peter spent most of his time prowling along the deli counter and sampling every cheese and cold meat available. He filled a wicker basket while Chris picked out a few sensible staples for his own.

More than once Peter lured Stiles over with a: “Here, taste this.” Before offering Stiles a small bite of cheese and pickle, or a small slice of baguette with a relish or sweet butter. Stiles found himself accepting food a few times from Peter’s fingers, easier around him somehow following the incident on the plane.

It wasn’t until he caught Chris looking sideways at him from across the farm shop that he realized the interaction wasn’t normal for them. They probably weren’t being appropriate at all. Clearly, he was jet-lagged and messed up after the flight.

Reluctantly, Stiles refused the next sample, realizing that Peter was glowing, preening with his chest drawn up in a way that was made even more impressive by the plunging scoop of his soft shirt. The same shirt he’d been nuzzled into during the flight. He made his way sheepishly back to Chris, collecting a case of glass-bottled orange soda and a large bag of fusilli-shaped chips. He contemplated a bar of chocolate before deciding he wasn’t quite recovered enough to risk something rich and not wanting to melt it and get it everywhere over Chris’ loaned car. To say he was an untidy eater was an understatement.

“Drop it all in.” Chris held out his wicker basket. “You can have some chocolate too. It’s a lot creamier than back home. Something to do with lower melting temperatures. That’s a good Belgian brand too, it’s very popular over here. You should try it. I’ll get you some.” Chris decided, picking up the bar Stiles had replaced.

“Oh! It’s fine. I can pay. My dad sent me with some Euros.” Which were in his lacrosse backpack in the luggage. Shit.

“Stiles, it’s fine. Save your money for souvenirs, I’ve already budgeted for food. Put it in. We came share them.” Chris insisted and thrust the basket out slightly further with a warm smile.

“Well, if you insist.” Stiles managed an awkward, grateful smile. “Thanks.”

Stiles carefully set the chips and soda on top of the vegetables and other bits Chris had collected. Right on cue, Peter returned with his basket consisting of a couple of dark bottles of wine and a mass of paper wrapped packages from the deli counter.

“I thought we could all do with spoiling.” Peter purred, absolutely radiating glee in a way that made Stiles wonder how good he would smell to a werewolf. The fact that he knew Peter smelled incredible already- musky and rich with that spiced, leather-scented aftershave- was embarrassing enough, but he swallowed and pushed the thought away.

Chris reached down and inspected a few of the jars Peter had in his basket. He gave a low grunt of satisfaction and led the way to the register. Stiles listened in as Peter fluently charmed the cashier while Chris helped pack their groceries into paper bags. He wasn’t sure they’d had a conversation about grocery shopping at all, or maybe it had been when he’d been slumped over his pillow, drooling in his sleep. However, as he watched the items pulled out and listened to them both switch between fluent French and English, he realized they were planning dinner together, like it was a completely normal thing.

He remembered Peter’s teasing right before Chris had to slam on his breaks and wondered again if this was something they’d done before. It seemed impossible. Almost as impossible as Chris offering to bring Peter along with them amicably. There were too many coincidences which suggested there was more between those two than anyone else knew.

When the cashier was finished, Stiles hurried forward when everything was bagged up to help.

“Here, let me grab that.” Before Chris could take the last bag, he seized it and hurried off, wanting to contribute _something_. “ _Merci!_ ” Stiles hollered back at the cashier. “Come on, guys! Let’s get going already. I need a shower so bad.”

Peter waxed poetic about the scent of cheese for the final hour of their journey.

\--

Approaching the château through the narrow, winding lanes, Stiles realized the castle he’d been ogling with his snub nose almost squashed to the window was in fact the Argent ancestral home.

The building was in ruins, the turreted, gray stone building seeming to have leaked and run with something black and permanent down its exterior walls, looking every bit the intimidating fortress from countless fantasy books, movies and games Stiles was familiar with, if on a slightly smaller scale. It was surrounded with fields and dense trees, almost impossible to get a proper, full view of, possibly originally intended to be tucked away from the eyes of commoners or for defence. Stiles wondered how the landscape might have changed in the hundreds of years it had been stood there. It looked like the trees had grown around it, or the castle had risen out of the depths of the forest.

“Beautiful, isn’t it? Such a tragedy that it was burned down and gutted.” Peter cut in, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Our family keep it maintained enough to keep it standing, safe and protected. We had been discussing opening it to the public someday, given its importance in the community, but it needs a lot of restoration to bring it up to code. It’s an important landmark. The rest of the town is… quaint. A lot of medieval buildings left. It’s considered a heritage site. Some of the streets are still cobbled and impossible for cars to drive down. It’s nice. Very peaceful. Not too many tourists either, even this time of year.” Chris explained, eyes ahead as he navigated the winding lanes that began to cut through the dense woodland.

“That translates as ‘boring and we’ll have to make our own entertainment’.” Peter piped up. Stiles twisted to look back at him where he was spread out on the back seat. “You’re more than welcome to join me for a trip to _gay Paris_ instead.” Peter offered with a small flourish of his hand.

He imagined how a break alone with Peter might go, with that sharp grin and that mischievous twinkle in his eyes that promised that all of Stiles’ dirty fantasies- that needed to _remain_ dirty fantasies- would be realized.

“No, thank you!” Stiles turned his back to Peter to focus on the road ahead.

He wasn’t sure why he objected so outright. Peter had been so arrogant and ridiculously flirty in his invitation, but it was almost instinctive of Stiles to push him back. Habit picked up from Derek, Scott, from the hissed reminders and gentle pinches to his arm from Lydia whenever he was invited to go back to Peter’s to do research with only the two of them.

If he’d been alone with Peter at his least stable, and had escaped unscathed and unbitten, then doing some one on one research together was hardly the risk.

There was good reason for them all holding Peter back at arm’s length, but close enough to keep watch of him. Stiles was mortified that his friends seemed to realize that with his impulsive tendencies, he possibly needing holding onto by the collar as well where Peter was concerned.

“Actually I _could_ drive us out to Paris.” Chris chimed in after a minute of quiet. “We have an apartment in the city too. It’s only a few hours back the way we came. France is only a similar size to Texas, you know. We’re still in Northern France. I used to take Ally there all the time, she loved the bakeries, the bookstores, the shopping.” Chris seemed to realize a moment after what he’d said and fell grim.

“That’d be cool.” Stiles offered quietly before the conversation lulled again.

He tucked his hands under himself, drummed his feet in the foot well and stared out and up at the way the trees bowed up and over above them in a perfect arch, one branch occasionally low enough to sweep the roof of the car.

It was difficult to talk to Chris about Allison at all, given that he still wasn't sure why the man didn't blame him for his part in her death. Luckily their two-day long journey ended abruptly before Stiles could grow any more anxious over the thought.

They turned up an unnamed, uneven path that jostled them in their seats. Stiles clamped one hand down on the door with a yelp.

“And _that’s_ why we needed to be able to go off road.” Chris said with a grin, brightening again. Stiles had never seen Chris look so cocky, but it was a glorious moment and he had to laugh.

“That's what I love best about Roscoe. He can handle anything.” Even patched up with duct tape, Stiles had an enormous amount of pride where his mom’s old Jeep was concerned.

Finally, they rolled out onto an open field spread in front of the castle, where it was divided by a now dry, grassy banked moat and the high surrounding walls Stiles had spied between the trees. Chris drove up to an old, barn-like building lying just outside of the castle walls towards the skirt of the woodland surrounding the field. Stiles strained forward against his belt for a better look at the fortifications of the castle itself, trying to work out how large the structure was in its entirety now it was mostly hidden behind the wall.

“Come on, let’s grab the luggage and I’ll show you around the place.” Chris offered.

The converted building was a shadow of its former self as a purpose-built domestic outbuilding. Chris explained how it had been renovated and lived in at periods but was now an Argent country home shared with his distant family and their ‘closest associates’- whatever that meant.  
Stiles hoisted his scruffy lacrosse backpack over one shoulder and dragged his suitcase behind him. His head remained turned towards the castle where it rose up behind the surrounding stone wall. It was a few stories high and impossibly thick, an arched entrance beyond the wooden bridge cutting across the moat, that led up a dirt track and provided a perfect frame for the ancestral Argent home beyond.

“Come on, Stiles.” Chris chided fondly. “This way. We can do a tour of the castle tomorrow. We’re staying in what used to be more contemporary stables.” Chris beckoned, jerking his head and waiting a while as Stiles whined and changed direction, hauling his luggage along with him across the too tall, straw-like grass onto even more uneven earth where the wheels refused to cooperate.

The air felt hot and close in a way that it didn’t back home. Not hotter, but just slightly humid and by the time they reached the converted coach house, Stiles’ shirt was clinging to him in a way that probably showed off how unattractively slim he’d become in recent weeks. He was glad in his last year at school he’d at least put on some muscle between lacrosse and chasing the supernatural, so he wasn’t entirely skin and bone. He could feel the prickle and roll of sweat down the length of his spine and after letting his backpack and case drop inside the doorway on the floor tiles, he realized to his dismay that the place didn’t have any visible air conditioning to speak of. The windows were narrow, made up of tiny frames that were crisscrossed with joins of metal. Some of them didn’t even appear to open, like they’d been welded in place in antiquity.

Peter had already dropped his leather designer bags on the coffee table in front of the antique, but obviously reupholstered couch. He returned to Chris, snatching up the groceries eagerly.

“I’ll tidy this away in the kitchen and sample the terrine and cold meats to make sure they didn’t go bad.” Peter bustled off, apparently as keen to indulge in more food as he was to be rid of Chris and Stiles for a while.

“This place is nice.” Stiles commented carefully, still making his mind up, but trying to remember his manners. It was interesting at the very least. He couldn’t wait to explore.

While nosing along the white washed stone, taking in the modern pieces combined with the wood burning fireplace, he spotted an antiquated spear mounted up high, with a shield emblazoned with a fleur-de-lis and wolfish beast laid over it. He lingered on it, remembering Allison unveiling a silver, stamped bullet with the same imagery that was the Argent’s mark.

The echo of Allison made him worry if this was where Chris had vacationed with his daughter only the previous summer, and whether it brought back painful or bittersweet memories if so. He questioned why they had even made the trip if that was the case. It felt unfair suddenly. It had to be. Stiles was stood in what was very much an _Argent_ family home. He felt slightly like an intruder, but Chris was quick to give him a welcoming smile and picked up his suitcase for him.

“Come on. I’ll show you to your bedroom.” Chris offered with a kind, understanding look.

He led Stiles up the narrow, creaking stairs to the second floor into the attic. The exposed beams were low and inconvenient in places and the wooden floor was stripped back, but still bore signs of wear and tear. Stiles realized it must have been converted later judging from the slightly cleaner and crisp finish of the wider, plentiful windows imitating the rest while letting in even more natural light. Stiles once again let his bag drop, more in a hurry as he slipped past Chris for the deep window sill at one end and leaned forward to unlatch it and push it out. He didn’t hesitate to stick his head out to get a better view of the château.

It was definitely a castle, Stiles decided, not a mansion or a house, as the place would have been fit for hosting royalty once upon a time. It rose up among the bushy, diverse greenery of the woodland surrounding it, cold and rugged in comparison. Very few buildings were visible in the lower ground surrounding them, so he imagined that even at a distance, the tops of the houses that had to be the village could probably see the castle from any vantage point if they looked in the right direction. Its grayness and jagged outcrops where it had crumbled contrasted with the powerful, smooth curves of its turrets and tall walls, capturing Stiles’ attention entirely. It managed to appear convincingly resilient and stoic, despite clearly having been ravaged and partially destroyed. Stiles wondered how many people had lived inside the magnificent building- how many had died there.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Chris said, making Stiles startle and twist from where he was folded over the high window ledge.

“Yeah. So impressive. I had no idea you owned a freaking castle like _royalty_.” Stiles chuckled, a nervous gurgle more than anything that left him feeling hot and embarrassed. He cupped the back of his neck, ruffling the nape of his neck and grimacing at the way sweat and soaked the edge of his hairline.

“It’s not much of a castle these days.” Chris said somewhat sadly before picking himself up. “I’m going to unpack. Your bathroom is through there. That’s all yours. Peter and I are sharing the one downstairs, but you’re welcome to use that one. Yours only has a shower, ours only has a bath.”

“Right.” Stiles nodded.

“Freshen up, unpack, take a nap if you need. I’ll be around if you want anything else. If not, one of us will come fetch you for dinner.” Before Stiles could find the words to thank him, Chris slipped back into the narrow stairwell, closing the door behind without a sound, giving him his privacy.

Stiles looked up and around at the vacant space above over the beams, realizing there was a string of fairy lights dangled there. He felt his chest clench as he realized there was a floral comforter thrown over the armchair by the bookcase. A stuffed bear tucked between two volumes. Some novice and colorful landscape paintings hung on the walls. A few photographs lined up on the far wall beside the window of neatly of carved masonry and arches that had to be the Argent castle- monochrome, obscure angles, experimental. He reached out to touch the edge of one, picturing Allison skipping over rubble and climbing walls to find the perfect shot.

He felt that familiar, unbearable sadness swelling in his chest again, his eyes brimming, and he quickly cuffed at them to rub and then swat away the tears as they formed and spilled. As his chest grew tighter, he forced himself to draw a few full, timed breaths and once calmer, launched himself into autopilot.

Now was not the time. He couldn’t be a bother to Chris again.

He headed straight for the shower.

Standing under the shock of a powerful, chilled blast of water that left him gasping eventually settled him, clearing his head. He remembered the way Scott had lunged into the locker room showers and torn the shirt from his back in a desperate attempt to bring himself back from the brink of shifting once. It was universally effective.

He braced himself with a hand against the wall, head down, sucking in air until he was numb and his fair skin goose pimpled and flecked with icy droplets. He slid his hand downward against the tiles in a daze and twisted the water off, holding himself there, locked in place, feeling temporarily numbed by his absolutions. The rush of water still seemed to echo on his head like white noise, drowning out his thoughts momentarily.

It was the furthest he’d ever been from home, true, but at the time he had wanted to put as much distance between himself, Beacon Hills, his memories, as much as possible. It looked like he’d brought his baggage along with him and Stiles prayed that Chris’ reasoning- that both he and his dad had trusted in- was sound.

It was meant to be a vacation he reminded himself as he straightened up and sniffled, grabbing for his towel and burying his face in it. He ruffled through his hair and then slung it around his waist to tuck it at the sharp jut of his hipbone before padding out, still dripping, into the bedroom. He flopped back onto the bed, not caring for making the sheets damp and felt the gust of warm country air tickling over each cold droplet of water left on his skin.

The soothing sensation of being chilled and being flat out on his back, one leg dangling off the edge of the mattress, was a world away from the stifled aircrafts he’d been cooped up in for days. It was heavenly, and closing his eyes, he let exhaustion take him.

\--

Stiles woke up with the sense that he was no longer alone.

He was right.

At the far corner of the bed was Peter, a thick arm curled around the rustic, wooden four poster frame surrounding the bed. His head was cocked, temple rested to the pole he was stood besides, expression gentle as he watched Stiles blink into awareness.

Stiles’ brow furrowed in confusion, then deeper as he came to realize how unacceptable the situation would be considered.

“Can I help you?” Stiles demanded, tiredness giving way to irritation as he pushed onto one elbow and then a second, not managing further than that. His body felt heavy and sluggish like he was recovering from flu. Whether it was the toil of jet lag, the general ache that hadn’t left since the Nogitsune departed his body, or from the general state of insomnia, he couldn’t say. He frowned as Peter made no movement and looked him over slowly in that predatory way that made Stiles’ stomach flutter. “Creeper.” Stiles grumbled and reached carefully to check that his towel was still in place.

“I only just came in and I did knock. I was debating whether to let you sleep some more. You do look so adorable when you’re sleeping.”

“Ugh. So creepy.” Stiles scoffed, hoping the strong palpitations were those he suffered frequently as of late, rather than making him pink in the cheeks. A dull purr from Peter had his eyes snapping up, the sound making his stomach twist again and his cheeks flaming quickly, so he knew his hopes were dashed. “You should get out. I’m underage. Chris would castrate you if he caught you leering.”

“We’re in France, _mon cher_.” Peter said smoothly, something about how readily he said it making Stiles alert. He pushed up onto his sit bones and wrists, heels digging into the bedding as he faced Peter better.

“So?” Stiles demanded, brows arched, head swaying a little, waiting for Peter to elaborate.  
The werewolf loosened his grip on the branch bracketing the bed frame, the uncurl of his relaxing muscles and stroke of his light fingers catching Stiles’ attention. Peter prowled a few steps towards Stiles’ end of the bed in that wolfish way of his that always left him flustered.

“So…” Peter prompted, expecting Stiles to connect the dots. Nearing Stiles, Peter reached out to tuck a curled finger beneath the point of his jawline, making Stiles forget everything he’d ever learned. He tipped Stiles’ head up as he loomed closer, the place familiar to Stiles. His heart beat quicker still, the memories of Peter touching such a delicate spot beneath his jaw when his claws had been sharp and bloodied. Somehow this felt more dangerous, electrified even, and it gave him that sharp thrill that he hadn’t experienced since the perverse glee of the Nogitsune bleeding into his own experiences. It was more exciting than when he’d kissed Heather, or when he’d fooled around with Malia. He wanted more.

“So,” Stiles echoed back dumbly, voice at the edge of cracking, his voice hoarse suddenly. He waited, sensing something building, shifting, about to give way at any point if the wrong move was made.

“So, in France, you’re a _man_ , Stiles.” Peter explained, a wolfish grin splitting his lips right when Stiles had been lingering on the inviting plumpness of them. The mischief reached Peter’s eyes as Stiles’ flicked up to meet them and as he drew back with a bark of a laugh, Stiles realized he had been stretching up, willing Peter to…

Stiles made a scoffing cry as though revolted, smacking Peter’s hand away hard, then gripping tight on his towel where it was folded and tucked around his waist. As Peter’s laughter blended smoothly into an airy chuckle, he strolled off to the door, as though he would have been indifferent and amused whatever the results of what Stiles had been lingering on might have been.

Not that Stiles was going to do anything or even wanted anything more to happen. Nope.

“Dinner’s ready.” Peter lingered at the door, peering back around it with an even wider grin. “As I was saying, you’re _legal_ , so if you’re a good boy and wash up, I’ll let you have a glass of that nice wine I picked out.”

Stiles grabbed for one of the floral pillows that felt hefty, well packed with feathers and flung it at Peter. Unfortunately, he had already slipped out down the stairs and the cushion hit the wall, then floor with a dull thud.

“Asshole!” Stiles shouted after him, Peter’s returning cackle travelling back up towards the eaves.

\--

As it turned out, either Chris or Peter had placed Stiles a tumbler of icy water and a glass for wine at the top of his place setting. As Peter poured himself a glass, Chris gestured towards the bottle, looking at Stiles.

“You’re allowed a drink with meals, but I can’t allow you to get drunk under my roof.” Chris explained, sounding strict despite the generosity of the offer somehow. A dad through and through. Besides, two mature men didn’t want to deal with a drunken, dancing Stiles.

“Yeah, wine sounds good.” Stiles hadn’t drunk much wine, but he nudged the glass towards Peter and was rewarded with the same half measure as the other two men.

Without stopping to think about it, Stiles lifted it, cradling the glass rather than taking it by the dainty stem. He tried to swirl it without much success, then tried faster and harder, nearly throwing it over his plate. He heard Peter snicker and shot him a withering look. He brought the glass up, taking a mouthful to save himself from further embarrassment, finding it somewhere on the edge of being tart and fruity, but not quite sweet. He held it there a fraction longer than was probably proper, swilling it about his tongue before swallowing and repressing a shudder at the sharpness.

“Oh. Wow.” Stiles breathed out, not sure how he felt about it. The stuff he’d sampled had been a sip here and there of something much sweeter.

“Is that alright? You don’t have to drink it.” Chris began sympathetically. “We can open a bottle of white next time.”

“No! No. I like it. I think. It’s just a new thing for me.”

“Mm, yes. I imagine you’ve only tried Lydia Martin’s punches and cheap beer that tastes like piss.” Peter pointed out, taking a much more refined sip of his own drink before going for the sharing platter centred on the lengthy, dark wood table between them. “Does the good Sheriff drink much in the way of wine?”

Stiles ignored him pointedly, not liking the knowing, smug tone Peter used. He didn’t want to get into an argument for Chris’ sake.

The bench at the side which opened out into the kitchen matched the sturdy wood, while the one running along the wall was backed, ending in ornate carvings- Chris explained how much of the furniture came from flea markets, antique stores, auction houses, and how some pieces like the table and less impressive bench, were rescued from the fire by being in storage. He’d guessed they’d been kept in the kitchens originally, used for servants perhaps. While the other seat had been a church pew Chris had bought during the renovation of a nearby parish church into housing. The entire place felt like a time capsule, even with the addition of modern appliances here and there for practical comforts.

“Tomorrow we can open a bottle of rosé or a white instead. Something crisper and fruity.” Chris offered up, shooting Peter a glare opposite them. It went unnoticed, as Peter was already helping himself to a bite of cheese in between plating up some of the choice pickings from the farm shop deli counter.

“Here, Stiles. This is the pâté you liked so much.” Peter had spread some onto a piece of bread and was holding it out for him, under the impression that Stiles would take it- perhaps even allow him to feed him by hand as he’d so foolishly allowed earlier.

“No, thanks.” Stiles shot down quickly and reached to help himself to some of the cheeses instead. They’d been stronger and more pungent than everything he was used to, but he could get used to it. “What is pâté anyway?”

“This one is duck,” Peter pointed to the other portion. “Goose. Mainly liver. A real delicacy to a werewolf. The flavors are just divine.”

Stiles stared at Peter, aghast as he popped the morsel of bread into his mouth whole and revelled in it. He’d never seen Peter so gleeful as when he was eating. The knowledge of feral omegas’ preferences for clawing out the livers of corpses flashed through Stiles’ thoughts, intrusive and turning his stomach.

“Gross.” Stiles mumbled and concentrated on the vegetarian options before deciding to add a slice of the wafer thin, cured meat. When he checked if it was pork, Peter agreed and watched as Stiles sampled it. “I like this better. It’s kind of like a pizza topping.” It had a slightly sweet, cured taste that was new. He almost expected Peter to make a snide remark at his comparison, but as he ate the werewolf watched with rapt attention, eyes almost appearing to flare brighter in the light of the candles as Stiles gave a moan of enjoyment. He helped himself to some more to avoid addressing that look.

“Yes, I thought you might like it.” Peter agreed in the lightest voice, so honeyed.

Chris shot Peter a warning look, but despite catching eyes, the werewolf spoke up again, more clearly.

“It’s just nice to see you excited about food again.” Peter explained with a gentleness that took Stiles aback. There was a pause and he felt himself heat up under the attention of such fondness, not sure where it had come from. It was even harder to digest such a compliment than to withstand Peter's leering.

It wasn’t like Stiles had been starving himself, but sometimes he couldn’t manage when the pack ordered takeout, his usual appetite shrunken.

He made a hopeless stalling: “Uhh…” before Chris rescued him where he was floundering.

“Shut up and eat your glorified dog food, Peter.” Chris teased, nudging the pâté closer across the table. Instead of a quip, Peter responded with a smile, looking entirely pleased with himself in a way Stiles had never seen before.

That sneaking suspicion resurfaced, that maybe Chris and Peter were acquainted outside what the pack had been aware of, but they simply hadn’t witnessed it before. How Stiles had ended up in such a situation, alone with Chris Argent and Peter Hale in France was still surreal.

“I was thinking tomorrow we could look around the château, then drive into the village or a nearby town for dinner. We should take things slow until we’re all feeling well-rested. Then maybe we can do some hiking or head to one of the lakes, take out a boat on the water, go for a swim?” Chris mused, sounding incredibly mellow and relaxed, the rumble of his voice a siren’s call to Stiles with its soporific effect.

“Sounds good, yeah.” Stiles agreed with a smaller smile that prompted Chris to return one of his own. It was a rare sight indeed and that alone left Stiles feeling giddy with glee. He ducked his head for a swig of wine. “I like swimming.”

It wasn’t too far-fetched from the vacations he’d spent with his dad. They’d driven to the coast with a board, or spent time hiking together. The Sheriff enjoyed finding any opportunity to fish. It had been years since they had taken a trip together though. Since Stiles had first shot up enough to reach his dad’s height.

_Huh._

The sudden thought of absence and the enormous distance made his stomach sink where it felt icy suddenly, his ambitious plate of food suddenly unattractive.

“Sorry. I’m still feeling jet-lagged. Can I save this for later?” Stiles suggested, looking towards Chris as the voice of authority and reason. He looked so deeply concerned that Stiles felt a fresh flood of guilt. “I should probably text or call my dad while I remember anyway.”

He had no doubt Chris had already let the Sheriff know Stiles was safe and sound, but still, he missed his dad and wanted to remind him he wasn't alone either.

“Sure,” Came Chris’ soft reply after a moment. A warm hand found the cap of Stiles’ shoulder, covering it easily to knead firmly, then brushing away. The gesture of affection melted the ice in his stomach, giving way to a spreading warmth down in the pit of his belly.

He reached out for his wine on instinct. Maybe it would help quell the nervousness he felt whenever one of them showed him some attention. He needed something to make him appear slightly less of a desperate kid pining for whatever scrap of attention he could be afforded. That was the last thing he wanted Chris and Peter to think of him.

“Ah-ah.”

Chris’ hand returned, this time covering his own with a delicate touch. The roughness of his palm startled Stiles, his eyes rounded as Chris guided him away from the glass gently. He felt like a doll, the way he was so carefully coaxed away from the wine to lay his hand back down on the table, but somehow, he knew if he’d pushed, Chris would have let him pull away rather than being manipulated.

He stared dumbly, lips parting with wonder from where they had felt sticky. Chris lifted the wine away entirely, confiscating it and replaced it with the glass of water, setting it down even closer to Stiles.

“You shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach. Drink this. Have one more piece of bread and cheese before you turn in. You’ll feel better for it. The rest can go in the refrigerator for whenever you get hungry.”

Something about the encouraging, hopeful look in those warm eyes had Stiles’ heart tripping over itself and his breath caught in his chest.

“Go on. I’ll make sure Peter doesn’t get to it either.”

“Okay.” Stiles agreed, hating how sweet an agreeable he sounded. Something about Chris made him feel… special. He was touched by his endless patience and care as much as he was flustered by Peter's attentiveness and understanding.

He took one half of a hollowed bread roll, buttered it and tucked a slice of cheese inside. It did turn out to help settle his stomach and he even managed the other, denser half before deciding he was full. With his belly full and his body shattered, he was eager to crawl into bed seeing as it was growing dark. Chris complimented how well he was adapting to time zones with a grasp at the side of his collar, a rub across the back of his neck that left Stiles feeling dazed and yearning for more. He ended up lingering while the other two are and drank, absorbing the atmosphere more than partaking in the conversation he was so out of it. He was even able to nibble more than he expected.

It wasn’t until Peter set the bottle of wine aside and announced they were all out that Stiles realized Chris was tipsy… and kind of handsy.

The light, skimming touches to his shoulders, arm, hand, were entirely welcome and Stiles found himself sliding closer across the upcycled church bench. It had felt a lifetime ago that he’d been curled up against Peter on the plane, being petted and held close to someone warm and strong. He wanted to melt against Chris’ side, crawl onto his lap for more contact. He'd barely tasted the wine, but the mood alone was infectious. Peter watched on ravenously and Stiles realized his attraction and the simmering desire of his daydreams must be palpable to Peter’s predatorial senses.

“Alright. Bed time for you.” Chris eventually insisted as they started to clear the table, separating what needed to go into the fridge for storing and what needed washing up. “We’ll take care of this. You make sure you sleep while you can.”

Thick fingers had brushed along his hairline and back, ruffling the thick tufts of his hair before Chris sent him on his way. Stiles stole a look back at Chris and Peter, working silently and without regarding one another as they began to tidy. The scene was oddly domestic and comfortable, leaving Stiles feeling comforted and settled to head on upstairs to bed.

He slipped on a pair of ridiculous, fish patterned pajama pants his dad had bought him for his last birthday, the fabric light and breathable, ideal for the summer heat. He clambered onto the bed, testing the bounce and firmness with a wriggle and draped the thinnest possible sheet over himself. He barely managed to text his dad, Scott and Lydia a: ‘Bonjour from France!’ with a string of relevant emojis, before he dozed off for while with his phone flat against his sternum.

He woke an hour or so later, judging from the time stamps on his texts and the replies. Easing out of bed and smacking his dry lips, he then crept barefoot down the stairs as lightly as he could manage, his needs taking him down in the direction of the kitchen for a glass of water.

As he reached the first floor landing, he heard a sound from Chris’ bedroom. A sharp gasp, a stifled moan. Stiles perked up, attention on the closed door.

A deeper groan that was met with a grunt of another. Stiles crept closer, roused into alertness, heart quicker still as he remembered the sounds of Peter fooling around in the plane bathroom. A glance across to Peter’s door on the opposite side where it was ajar, and Stiles knew for certain who was making Chris moan like that. He definitely hadn’t heard Peter before, if the deep moans coming from the bedroom were anything to go by. As Stiles approached the door, leaning closer to hear better, he could hear the dull thunk and creak of the furniture being rocked, the quiet, low sounds of pleasure being fucked out of Chris as Peter purred something too slurred for Stiles to understand, but which drew out a longer noise of sheer bliss from Chris.

He was breathless as the urgency picked up, hearing Chris chanting Peter’s name, strained and desperate.

Stiles snapped back, his whole body feeling hot and his cock throbbing where it tented the front of his sleepwear obscenely already. He’d lingered long enough and somehow it felt wrong standing and listening when the two didn’t realize he was there. Stiles realized that maybe Peter had heard him anyway.

Hurrying as quietly as he could back upstairs, Stiles dropped back onto his bed and settled down quickly. He pushed his pants down and kicked them aside in a rush, gripping his cock in hand without bothering to take time to tease himself or spit in his palm to ease the way. Maybe he should have brought along something, but it had been so long since he’d been able to enjoy getting off and the consequences were suddenly hitting him hard.

Barely a minute of stroking himself with a raw palm, thinking about Peter and Chris together, and Stiles was coming, balls tightly drawn and thick, milky ropes and droplets spitting over where his shirt had bunched up across his bare belly. He barely had the sense to sink his teeth into his bottom lip as bucked up to stifle his cry.

By the time he was done he was sucking down on his sore lower lip, teasing the head of his cock by rubbing the mess he’d made. He circled himself, tracing the ridge of his cock, along the slit, until he was left shiny and slick, his fingers stringing as he drew them away when he became overly sensitive. He sucked them into his mouth by force of habit, cleaning himself up, even though the action made his cheeks prickle with further heat. His spent cock lay curved up towards the crease of his hip. Stiles lay panting gently, fingers trailing back to brush along his cock, seeing himself through the final, reeling thoughts of Chris and Peter, tangled up, rocking together until both as spent as he felt. He had barely cleaned himself up enough when he was dragging the sheet over himself, slipping into a deep sleep as he thought of the pair of them tucked up close together somewhere below.

It didn’t occur to him that Peter might have slipped out after, as the thought of them both having someone to share the night with was a comfort to Stiles enough to relax him in return. It was a nice thought of the pair cuddled up for the night. One that Stiles idly entertained of having himself.

\--

Stiles woke with the midday sun blazing through the sheer curtains, heat baking the room and leaving him sticking to the thin sheets with sweat. Even with the far window ajar, it had still been hot. He patted around for his phone, answered a few texts and dropped it back down on the bed. After cleaning up a little, he wound his way down the creaking stairs with much less caution than the previous night, heading immediately for the kitchen.

He came to a halt at the threshold to the kitchen, staring where the ancient timber of the doorway framed Peter where he was tending to the counters. He was dressed in ridiculously tight clothing, the fabric and seams of his pants seeming to hug his ass just so in a way that made Stiles heat across the bridge of his nose, high on his cheeks, all the way to the tips of his ears. He rushed away, leaving Peter to whatever he was attending to in the oven and went wandering the house until he could calm himself down.

He couldn’t start thinking about the possibility that Peter was dressing provocatively to seduce the equally hot Chris Argent. Not now he knew for sure they were sleeping together.

It was hotter than anything Stiles’ imagination could have conjured up.

He shook the thought away and took himself off into the living room to explore instead. There was bound to be a good distraction in there.

The house belonged to Chris now, Gerard before him, his parents before that, back and back until the land had been bought and the Argents had allegedly erected the castle. The stone for the stables appeared to be cut from the same source, but in a decidedly less fine finish. At some point they had been splashed with white paint indoors to give a cleaner, modern feel, the wooden beams standing out in dark contrast, revealing the very skeleton of the building. Stiles had never seen a building like it. Even the traditionally crafted joins and pegs were visible in plain sight. He touched the wall, skimming his fingertips over the uneven surfaces where they had been smoothed with plaster, but undulated where the stone buckled beneath. It was somehow cool and refreshing to the touch, so Stiles continued to pace the outskirts of the room, studying the features he hadn’t been alert enough to appreciate upon arrival.

The shield and spear still stood out. Browned and faded with age, the spear tip itself speckled with age spots, rather than polished and sharp. A notch along one edge, a slight bend to the tip, as though it had one pierced flesh only to be ricochet against bone or having bounced at the impact against armor. It wasn’t particularly fine or impressive in design really, but it was striking in size, making Stiles consider scenes of spearmen with their heraldic shields from the Bayeux tapestry, which Peter had been teaching him about before their trip. It wouldn't have been out of place in the inventory of the characters from his favorite fantasy role-playing game.

Circling the room, he made his way to the fireplace with its wood-burning stove, chin up as he considered what the significance of the spear was. Despite not looking particularly impressive, he assumed that its presence had some meaning. Maybe it wasn’t valuable enough to be locked away with the rest of Chris’ weapons. Maybe it was indigenous to its surroundings and had belonged to a guard who served the Argents. Maybe it was used in hunting, or in battle. Stiles was already imagining a man with shadows of Chris’ features, dressed for battle. Steely eyes framed by polished metal.

“Those were found in the castle somewhere.” Chris’ voice came gently enough, a little hoarse, but he always seemed to introduce himself carefully, as if approaching a skittish animal. Stiles appreciated it. He half turned to watch Chris approach.

“Yeah? Did the spear belong to one of your ancestors?” Stiles asked with a gesture, eyes darting to the spear and back to Chris.

He was surprised to see Chris dressed in long shorts, revealing well-shaped calves. A soft linen shirt with the sleeves rolled and the buttons largely undone was also something new for Chris. The fabric looked thin enough that it would be cool, perhaps even transparent in the right light. It was an incredibly comfortable, bohemian look that suited Chris’ recently thickened beard and unkempt hair well. Stiles swallowed hard, licked the compliment from his lips he was desperate to give. Luckily Chris rescued him by answering his question first.

“Probably not. More likely a guard. It was just in storage. A lot of the artifacts weren’t recorded properly and the most important ones were taken away. What’s left is just to give an atmosphere.” Chris hummed and gave Stiles a quick smile, sensing the appreciation. “It's nice though, I think it really adds to the authentic aesthetic of the place.” Chris said, sounding more like Peter, but shrugged with an indifference that made Stiles ponder.

“Peter’s been here before, hasn’t he?” Stiles should have slapped his hand over his mouth to stop his impulsive tongue, but instead he stared at Chris as he gaped, shocked the first time ever in Stiles’ knowledge. Staring adults down to get the truth tended to work in his experience, but rarely with Chris. Only for once Chris’ eyes widened a fraction and he was stuck for a moment before finding an appropriate response.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he started, recovering fast and playing it off with a smile. “You know how Peter is. He likes to dig into other people’s lives to try get to the bones of it all.” Chris smirked and gave Stiles a playful bump with his elbow. It was nothing, but the charming smile and sweetness of the action made Stiles lightheaded, making him sway to the side slightly. “Meddlesome bastard.”

“I can hear you! _Werewolf!_ ” Peter called out, all the more exasperated even more than the last time.

Stiles made a soft sound in agreement and dipped his head, deciding to move on. It wasn’t fair to pry into Chris’ sex- love?- life at such a difficult time purely to satisfy his own perverted curiosity because he was attracted to them both.

“So, are you going to dig out your hat and whip to show Peter and me around the ruins?” Stiles asked, voice lifting hopefully and very nearly chuckling at his own joke. “You know, Indiana Jones style.” He was used to checking if Scott understood his references. Fortunately, Chris grinned before he could feel too foolish or nerdy.

“Maybe just the whip to keep Peter in line,” Chris nudged Stiles again and left him reeling. He was obviously oblivious that Stiles knew they'd been together the night before. He went pink. “But breakfast first. Come on, Peter was making you French toast. Your dad said you like it.”

Stiles opened his mouth and then closed it. His heart thumped knowing that so many people were taking care of him. He gave a dip of his head in agreement.

“When in Rome,” he joked in a quiet mumble. “Or in this case, France.”

Chris steered Stiles into the kitchen with a hand on his shoulder. He slotted onto the bench and slid over to his spot from the previous night. Peter carried over a plate and set it down alongside a mug of foamy coffee. Stiles gazed up at him and the look they shared… Peter knew. The more Stiles blushed the more Peter’s savage grin grew.

“Enjoy.” Peter winked, dropping into a seat across from Stiles with his own breakfast, and Chris at his other side. “You know,” he started in a voice that commanded attention, even when speaking relatively softly. “Originally in France it was called _pain perdu_. Christopher, ‘ _pain perdu_ ’?”

Chris who was arranging his plate and cutlery to his own liking barely glanced up, apparently, he was hungry.

“Lost bread.” Chris translated, immediately tucking into his own breakfast with vigour.

“The idea was taking the stale bread and salvaging it.” Peter explained, propping his elbows on the table, studying Chris as he ate, a look of hunger there that had absolutely nothing to do with food. His eyes shot to Stiles, who dropped his attention to his food and stuffed some quickly into his mouth, needing a distraction from his own awkwardness.

It was sheer perfection.

“Anyway, we’re going to take the opportunity to help you brush up on your French while you’re here. Keep that brilliant brain of yours active and focused when you need a challenge. God knows, I need some entertainment.” Peter drawled, as though being exiled to vacation in France for the summer was a hardship. “And if you get on well, we should make a start on Latin, Middle Egyptian hieroglyphs, or Norse runes. You know, languages that come in useful when dealing with the supernatural.”

Stiles perked up at the prospect of that. Peter had regularly suggested that he teach Stiles an ancient, dead language so he could deepen his research pool, and for ‘emergencies’ when dealing with threats that extended beyond the capabilities of werewolves. He was always very vocal about his appreciation of having a human pack member, even if he was the only one to ever show his gratitude for Stiles sticking around.

“That would be amazing.” Stiles said in wonder, eyes wide. “But yeah, let’s start with French. I started to fall behind a little at the end of the semester.” His voice shrank as he recalled his fluent French study buddy was no longer there to help him out. He glanced to Chris, watching him with curiosity, but not realizing the cause of the sudden lull in Stiles’ tone. “If you could help, that’d be awesome. Maybe when we go shopping next time I can try talking to the person at the checkout?”

Chris smiled warmly, melting Stiles’ concern away at how honestly pleased and proud he looked.

“That’d be great. Thank you, Stiles. I’d appreciate the help.” The earnestness of Chris’ gratitude was clear in his pale eyes and made Stiles feel warm through. “We’ll go shopping in a day or two. Let’s just take the day to recover and I’ll take you around the castle. Show you the sights.”

“And introduce you to _les fantômes._ ” Peter cut in, voice velvety, the way it always got when he was goading someone.

“Phantoms? You mean _ghosts?_ Is the castle haunted?” Stiles piped up, bolt upright on the bench as he twisted towards Chris so fast, he almost jabbed him with the piece of French toast skewered on the end of his fork. The number of times he’d tried to convince Scott that ghosts _could_ exist.

Chris’ brows slanted and he smiled gently, completely amused and fond, shaking his head ever so slightly.

“I’m afraid I’ve never seen any, but I guess it’s one less thing that goes bump in the night that I need to worry about.”

“I’ll bet Lydia would have something else to say.” Peter mused aloud, finger trailing around the rim of his coffee cup as he gazed down into it, seeming unassuming, even though his tone was egging Chris on. “There has to be some sort of lingering presence after death for a banshee to feel a connection. Not to mention how unsettling haunted places can be to those of us with more refined senses than you humans.” There was a smug look on Peter’s face, as if he had a discriminating palate that neither human could ever hope to understand.

“Sure. You tell us if you sense anything like a good wolf.” Chris said, smiling subtly at Peter which removed all bluntness of his tone. It made Peter snort quietly, but it was hardly an unattractive sound and Stiles was close enough to see there was a subtle flush rising to Peter’s cheeks.

There was something relaxed and easy about the two that Stiles had never seen before and he wondered if things weren’t always so dire, if the two might have gotten together, made an attempt at dating. It was a path Stiles had never dared speculate for the two, but he’d rarely seen them together in the same context. He was already watching, looking for tell-tale signs. He was so certain that Peter had been there before- he moved about the place in a familiar, easy way with none of the caution the Hales seemed to when arriving in a new place. Stiles knew werewolves. Peter was comfortable there, comfortable with Chris even. That definitely hadn’t been the first time they’d slept together. Stiles had never been more certain.

“Stiles, eat up. We’re not leaving until I’ve washed up.” Peter cut into Stiles’ thoughts, making him blink into awareness. He was reanimated in the next moment, quickly shovelling down the rest of his breakfast without a thought. Peter was glowing by the time he was gathering up the empty plates to wash up. “Good boy.” The wolf growled happily as he sauntered off to the deep, apron sink to tend to the dishes.

“Take your time. We’ll head out whenever you’re ready. There’s no rush.” Chris said more reassuringly, touching Stiles’ lightly on the arm before sliding out to get more coffee. “The castle’s not going anywhere.”

Before he could get distracted watching Chris and Peter getting along in this bizarre alternate reality, Stiles hurried to get himself properly dressed for the day. A pair of shorts and a colorful, striped t-shirt that was wearing thin was perfect for another warm day. He stuffed his feet into his most well-worn Adidas without bothering with the laces, flexing the toes and making sure they were sturdy before rushing downstairs. They’d be perfect if he decided to go climbing.

Chris checked if he’d put on sunscreen and before Stiles could answer, Peter appeared at his side, slathering his arms and the back of his neck. There was something about the large, slow glide of Peter’s palm across his nape and down the sides where his neck sloped that made Stiles’ stomach flip pleasantly and his legs weak.

“Do you want me to do your legs, sweetheart?” Peter asked as he came around to face Stiles. The smugness written all over his face said it all.

“I’m not a kid, you know.” Stiles huffed, grabbing the bottle and putting a foot to the wall, twisting to get himself covered. He hoped he didn’t fall as he hopped, trying to keep balance. Peter lingered, either waiting to catch him, or laugh and gloat should he fall. Stiles managed somehow.

“Here,” Peter tucked in close, stealing a last dollop of sunscreen, dipping a thumb, dragging it across Stiles’ cheeks gently, his brow, then catching the end of his nose with a smirk. They were close. “Don’t forget your ears. You’re looking quite pink and hot already.” With a grin he turned and walked away, leaving Stiles to splutter for a moment.

“Asshole,” he mumbled, rubbing at his face furiously to work in the sunscreen. “I know you just want to rub your scent all over me! Dirty, old wolf!” Stiles yelled after him as he stomped out the door after Peter.

Chris was already outside, watching Stiles merge having caught what had been yelled, then glowered across at Peter.

“You said he needed sunscreen.” Peter explained candidly, shrugging and heading onward towards the faint trackway cutting through the grass.

Chris looked frustrated for a moment, but it faded as Stiles reached him.

“You got that whip?” Stiles asked with a scowl and a huff. Chris laughed at that, clapping a hand to the back of his neck and pressing down, pinching in the same way that Peter did. He suppressed the shudder of delight he felt creeping on, losing his breath for a moment.

He wondered if Chris and Peter touched one another like that. Had Chris learned that affectionate trait from being hands on with a werewolf? Was Stiles experiencing some tactile expression of affection that they were in the habit of giving whenever they were together alone? He was already yearning for more of it, starved of that sort of secure, fond touch. Maybe he couldn’t sense how he’d been marked by scent, but he was certainly enjoying the firm pressure, the warmth of it- and the ghost sensation left behind immediately after.

“Let’s go.” Chris marched him forward, hand on the back of his shoulders for the first few paces until the ground became uneven, where they parted naturally to concentrate on their footing.

Stiles marvelled at how low even the ancient treeline appeared surrounding the looming stone towers and crumbling walls. It was impressive and a little daunting. The sunshine blazing high above them in an impossibly blue sky and the birdsong in the surrounding woodland should have made it look like a picturesque fairy tale. The broken walls and derelict state the ruins exuded only felt colder contrast, a foreboding dark cloud on the otherwise green, vibrant landscape. Blackened streaks stained the masonry, as if the castle was eternally bleeding. Peter’s earlier hint of a tall tale and a haunted castle lingered in the back of Stiles’ mind as they breached the grass line, their surroundings suddenly turning gray and cold as they reached the moat.

Peter and Chris headed across the solid wooden bridge towards the cavernous arch of the gate where it was locked up. Stiles held back, hesitant on the bridge as he felt a chill gust over the fine hairs at the back of his neck, faltering, even as the others pressed on. He almost wanted to call out and for a moment he wondered if the unsettled feeling was akin to that of a banshee passing a graveyard or place of death.

Stiles steeled himself, took a breath and remembered that he was the guy who dragged his best friend out to find a body in the dark and who had taken on real big bads. An allegedly haunted castle was no big deal. Nope. As his dad had always said- it was the living they needed to be mindful of, not the dead.

“Are you alright, Stiles?” Chris’ reassuring tone brought Stiles out of where he’d been lost in his own thoughts. He’d already finished unlocking the gate, Peter already through but waiting underneath the far end of the arched passageway of stone. He was half turned and alert, not quite ready to abandon them immediately. It was almost sweet.

“Coming!” Bounding forward, Stiles found a burst of excitement again, confident that he was in good hands for the first time in a long while.

Beyond the walls and through the tunnel of the gateway, the ground was levelled out, earth and gravel pushed aside by rough patches of wiry grass, a few dry, prickly bushes and vines having forced themselves up out of the dirt to grow in patches clinging to the outer walls of the castle. The enormous stone walls towered high around them, hugging around the castle and extending out into a courtyard, a few dilapidated out buildings here and there, a few arched wooden doors in various states of disrepair gave the impression that once, it would have been bustling with activity. As far as Stiles could see, the window arches were hollowed out and now provided passage for bird who had made nesting spots inside. It was a shell of something that had once been formidable, its emptiness unsettling in that nobody had seen reason to reoccupy the castle, despite its solid foundations, as though the threat of spirits had been plenty to drive anyone away.

“There’s only one way in and out through the main gate. Everything the Argents living here would have needed could be stocked here, in case of siege- human or not.” Chris explained as Stiles quickened his stride to match and keep up with the other men.

Peter had already wandered closer to the main building, stroking down a carved, twisted column of stone within the door frame design. Peter lingered, fingertips running over the grain of the carved stone before he slipped into the shadowy room ahead. As Stiles and Chris followed, his head was drawn up, where the ceiling vaulted into a high point, rafters lost in places, broken and half charred at the ends, now black and shining like coal. The majority remained intact, holding up castle proud and a few design details carved into the thick beams for a more delicate finish in places by the carpenter.

The narrow, high windows were partially lined with the original metal skeleton of the pane designs, gridded and crisscrossing in a complex lattice, now casting mottled shadows with what light cut in through the slits through the thick stone walls. Stiles passed through the cuts of light, stunned by the oppressive feeling of the dark rafters above and the silence all around them. A sudden flap of feathers and disgruntled cooing way above them made Stiles jump as a pigeon shot across the long hall, eventually nestling atop another beam away from the intruders. It ruffled its feathers a few more times, Stiles cursing it with a hiss, hand splayed over his heart.

“Really, Stiles? It’s just a pigeon.”

Snapping his head back down, Peter had wandered back, brushing by and drawing a light hand across his shoulders sweetly, even if he was chuckling.

“Shut up.” Stiles muttered, reddening and moved away in the direction of another arch that Chris was passing under.

Chris explained the function of the rooms on the impromptu tour, how there was a kitchen and storage areas, the sort of food they would have eaten, what would have been a study or library. He pointed out where the floors had fallen away and only left gaps within the structure, or floating fireplaces half way up the walls, now a perfect shelter for the local wildlife against the elements and predators. While it was like nothing Stiles had ever seen before, as he caught sight of Peter, sometimes looking solemn, or raking his blunt nails gently over charred stone or wood. He wondered how Derek and Peter had been able to withstand being in their ancestral home once they’d witnessed such trauma, when the ruin of Hale house wasn’t such a removed tragedy. They didn’t even have the remains left to mourn now that it had been bulldozed flat.

Stiles edged towards Peter when he lingered behind on their tour, as if he had been dragged along, too quiet and brooding for Stiles’ liking. He didn’t even seem to register Stiles sidling up to him until he was tentatively reaching up, placing a hand on his arm and rubbing up and down a few times against a very warm and solid bicep, attempting to recreate that soothing pack contact he’d been shown.

Peter’s blue eyes fixed on him, unblinking, his lips tight. Observant, but not expressive enough to give anything away. Anxiously Stiles wet his lips, hand still cupping Peter’s arm, squeezing while trying to find something to say, but deciding better of it. He took his hand back, wondering if his bony fingers were cold compared to the hot-blooded werewolf who radiated warmth.

He shuffled along, pretending to take an interest in a very unexciting alcove that had the thinnest window he’d ever seen. Chris explained how it was for an archer to safely launch arrows, rather than for the view.

“That’s probably the extent of rooms we can go in here safely,” Chris said from across the wide, empty room. “But we can head down into the chapel and crypt, if you like.”

Stiles shot over, almost tripping over on the uneven flagstone floor.

“There’s a crypt? Seriously?” Stiles asked, mouth agape as his mind began churning with questions. “Oh my god.” That explained the tall tales of ghosts. Chris chuckled and cocked his head as he turned.

“This way.”

The entrance was closed off with a heavy metal gate, double bolted and chained, as if concealing some great, ancient evil or lost treasure. Stiles was brimming with excitement, shifting weight from foot to foot as if about to start hopping he was so excited. He tried to be patient while Chris unlocked the entrance, while Peter kept his arms folded beneath his chest and watched him sideways with a flickering smile.

When it was finally open, the hinge shrieking and echoing down the stone staircase ahead of them, Chris took out a pocket flashlight, offering it to Stiles, but he fumbled for a moment, tugging out his phone to use that instead. They headed down a twisting staircase, ending up in a suddenly chilled, damp tunnel that seemed to run onwards the length of the castle underbelly, rather than expanding outwards, arches dividing the tunnel into separate areas.

“It’s a collective family tomb. Each of these chambers contains caskets and ashes of my ancestors. Nobody has been placed in here for generations, but I believe it’s in Gerard’s will to have his ashes placed in here.” Chris said dryly, passing through past each of the alcove rooms and shining a torch in for Stiles to get a better look.

There were shelves, sometimes standing coffins, or plaques with inscriptions detailing the coffins of those slotted into the walls. The place really was built on top of graveyard- or at least, it had one purposely built beneath it. The final room was the narrowest, barely wider than the tunnel itself, locked with another door which took Chris some time to work open. The stone coffin in the middle had been carved out of a deep maroon marble, with lightning streaks of white through it, contrasted by a black lid. Even covered with dust, it seemed to give a shine off the surface that not of the other graves had, the gold gilt of the inscription simple.

_MARIE-JEANNE ARGENT._

“The grave goods were all removed, but they clearly believed they deserved some sort of special recognition. When we had it excavated, the grave goods were older than the burial, so we think she may have been moved from her original resting place. Maybe because of overcrowding in cemeteries in France during epidemics, maybe to venerate a historic family member.”

“What kind of grave goods?” Stiles asked, rounding the sarcophagus and reaching over to skim his fingers over the woman’s name.

There was a moment of silence.

Chris could barely meet Stiles’ eye, a visible sadness washing over him and making his shoulders sag, his hand resting on top of the ancient casket. It was the sort of overwhelming distractedness caused by grief that Stiles knew all too well.

“A pendant.” Peter offered, apparently already familiar with the intimate details of the Argent family. He stepped into the room fully from where he’d been loitering at the edges of the shadows, a pair of luminous, cold blue eyes in the darkness. It was a sight which Stiles had never become fully accustomed to. Those eyes were always so striking lit up, but the glow faded as Peter stepped into the light of their torches. “The same which Chris now keeps in his pocket.” The werewolf gestured and Chris tucked a hand into his breast pocket, pulling out the length of silver chain and the familiar, ornate pendant.

He laid it out on top of the grave, the wolf facing upward, the metal looking cold and glaring under the white, artificial light. It looked bigger than it had tucked against Allison’s breastbone and warmed against her skin as she toyed with it absentmindedly in class. It looked so wrong without Allison, such an obvious and cruel reminder that she was gone. Guilt began twisting at his insides as he fought not to look at Chris or the pendant, trying to find a distraction.

The silence was suddenly crushing, the darkness pressing down around Stiles and the torch light too narrow.

“Stiles?” Chris said gently, realizing something was off.

“I’m gonna head up. Feeling claustrophobic.” Stiles said quickly, taking a step back and catching his foot on a loose stone, staggering. He caught his elbow on the wall behind and winced, cradling it as he made his way feeling embarrassed and tearful towards the hallway.

He shot down the passageway towards the staircase, feeling as though he was swaying as the light and shadows swung with each rock of the torchlight in his hand. He rushed up the staircase, using his hand against the stone to steady and pull himself up faster, his breath heaving between exertion and panic.

He staggered through the empty, cavernous rooms until he was tripping over the step into the courtyard. Immediately the warmth of sunlight kissed his skin, making him realize just how chilled he’d felt down beneath the earth. He sucked in a deep lungful of fresh air, holding his head high and letting his eyes close. He listened to the call of birds around them and the gentle brush of leaves and grass tickled and shifted by the light breeze. He was calm in a matter of minutes, left with the barest wetness at his eyes and slow, but heavy pound of his heartbeat.

Once he felt steady, he headed over to a jut of wall that enclosed a small area, hoisting himself up to sit on its edge, swinging and kicking his feet idly in front. After a few minutes Peter emerged from the ruins, joining Stiles and starting up conversation about the layout of the castle, pointing out notable architectural features and the style of masonry. Stiles relaxed, taking it all in and prompting Peter with questions here and there, more intrigued with every answer he was given. It was the perfect distraction.

“You know a lot about this place, huh?” Stiles asked with surprise. There was rarely a subject that Peter didn’t seem to be an expert on, but even so, it was a lot. He couldn’t shake the feeling Chris and Peter had come here more than once before.

“I like history.” Peter shrugged and turned his head evasively towards the main building, feigning unawareness.

“I don’t mean that. I meant--” Stiles was cut off by something shifting at the corner of his vision and the crunch of gravel underfoot as Chris re-joined them. He bit his lip and tried to keep himself from prying. That was the absolute last thing Chris needed right now. Stiles didn’t want to make him regret being lumbered with him for the next couple of weeks. He’d already made an idiot of himself more than once since they’d left.

“Chris, why don’t we take a scenic drive somewhere for dinner?” Peter suggested, ready to divert the man’s focus onto something more pleasant, Stiles guessed. The werewolf dropped down gracefully off the wall, brushing his hands and outfit down as he made his way back to Chris’ side. “I don’t feel much like cooking today.” Stiles followed, staring at how close Peter and Chris were together all the time, when he’d barely seen them in the same proximity before, let alone interacting. Maybe there had been a good reason for that, seeing as Peter couldn’t seem to keep his hands off Chris, even in Stiles’ company.

“ _La Bergerie_?” Chris said quietly to Peter, looking up at him. There was a hopefulness and suggestiveness there that said Peter already knew precisely the place.

“Mm. Sounds wonderful.” Peter returned the secretive smile, a twinkle in his eye as the corners creased. “I think Stiles will like the atmosphere there too. Rustic.”

Had Stiles not been trailing behind them and watching like a hawk he was so fascinated, he might have missed the way Peter reached out and brushed the backs of his fingers down the outside of Chris’ hand. It was barely anything, but it seemed to brighten the mood as they walked back to the house together in comfortable silence.

He was in good hands.


	2. Danse Macabre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles’ vacation with Chris and Peter takes a turn for the worst when a body is discovered nearby and the locals are suspicious of the old legends of beasts.

The concept of summering in the French countryside with two attractive, intelligent men was better than anything Stiles could have conjured up. They went for long walks, through dense, mossy woodland and sneaking past grazing wild deer, and along the rocky banks of trickling streams, Stiles wading into the water to collect water-smoothed stones, which Chris identified as he rolled them between his fingers and explained with the same encyclopedic knowledge that he had of all the flora and fauna surrounding them. Apparently Chris Argent was a massive _nerd_ , which made Peter ‘ _Actually..._ ’ Hale watch on with a fixed intensity that Stiles began to understand wasn’t his usual heated gaze like he sometimes caught Peter watching him with as he studied. Oh no. Peter was in fact _making moon eyes at Chris._

So Peter Hale, the big bad wolf, had a secret soft side that came out around Chris Argent. Who would have guessed? Not even Stiles if he hadn't witnessed it for himself. The unexpected side effect and the real surprise of this strange discovery though was Stiles felt similarly smitten just from being in the vicinity of the pair.

Everything about Chris and Peter’s relationship felt so simple at times, but then there would be a snide comment, or a butting of heads that shattered the illusion of romance where Stiles would have to intervene and remind them that _he_ was supposed to be the one in high school. Usually it shut them up quickly and often Chris would murmur a low, but heartfelt apology. It pained Stiles even more than Scott and Allison’s fractured relationship ever had to see the two bicker. In a weird way, he hoped that Chris and Peter could finally get it together someday to be a proper couple. There was a strong foundation there, and even the outbursts seemed caused by intense passion.

Stranger still, the opportunity to feel like a spare part never came into the equation, because Stiles was constantly required to lighten the mood whenever things soured or became too dark. He was there to nudge Peter when he went too far, or gently pat Chris on the shoulder when he grew melancholy whenever things reminded him of Allison, or to draw his memories to happier ones so they were at the least bittersweet. Stiles soon learned more than he ever thought he’d know about Allison too- probably more than Scott had learned in a few months- as Chris shared little stories of her childhood summers spent walking the same paths they were. Incredibly private, intimate stories of Allison being carried on her dad’s shoulders through the woods after one of her shoes got washed downstream, and the time she got stuck climbing the ruins of the castle and Chris had to climb up and rescue her. Apparently Allison had always been climbing higher than she knew and it had taken rock climbing lessons and gymnastics to keep her adventurous nature at bay. Chris promised to show Stiles some of the outfits Victoria had made especially for Allison, which had been hidden away when she'd become embarrassed by the glitter and sparkles. They laughed about it in a way that felt wholesome and healing.

It felt good and healthy to share their own memories of Allison with one another, and whenever Stiles or Chris grew tearful, they found themselves embracing easily. Soon Stiles was sliding into that tight, meaningful embrace at any excuse. It simultaneously became a craving and second nature. The same way Stiles had been able to weasel his way into little touches with the standoffish Derek, he was soon able to do the same with Chris- only this time his attentions were reciprocated. Stiles was never once rebuffed or turned away with excuses. Chris had never been spoken of as being soft or affectionate, even though Stiles himself had known about how fiercely protective he had the potential to be… But it seemed to come from a place of caring. He recalled idly feeling slightly jealous of Allison's frustrations with her strict parents who were overly involved in her life. Stiles found himself yearning for somebody to care for him with the same ferocity as Chris had his loved ones.

Overall things felt remarkably peaceful and amicable between the three of them. Though that had to be what it was like hanging around adults rather than teenagers, right? Stiles found himself attracted to the lifestyle, letting himself indulge in the way Peter enjoyed pampering him, or whenever he was offered a large, soft palm out to him to help him clamber over a fallen log or up over the rickety, greened wooden stiles between fences that acted as boundaries throughout the countryside. It didn’t feel as if he was being babysat, but more that they were being patient whenever he became distracted- a regular occurance- and they were cautious whenever there was a likely opportunity Stiles might injure himself by his own clumsiness. More than anything, Stiles felt as if he was being courted by two gentlemen from a period novel, which he absolutely wasn’t complaining about. He’d allow himself to daydream and enjoy having Chris open doors for him and Peter offer him his jacket at the slightest detectable shiver. Nor did he miss the way Peter's eyes darkened as he slipped into one of their jackets and made a quiet hum as he settled into snug warmth.

Stiles usually found it was Peter lingering, waiting back for him more than once to help him over funsteady fencees, holding his hand after he’d hopped down onto terra not-so-firma. At one point Peter leaned in to gather Stiles’ scent, simply telling him that he smelled good. Stiles brushed a hand across his brow to clear away the slight dampness there from the heat, nervously brushing off his own blatant attraction with a few muttered comments, even as the heat licked at his cheeks to flush them pink. Peter carried on with a satisfied smirk and a swagger in his stride, knowing full well how attracted Stiles was to him. While in the past it had felt like a dangerous game to play, knowing it was one Chris Argent played actually made Stiles relax into indulging Peter's flirtatious advances all the more. Peter wouldn’t be with them to begin with if he was a real threat. He was pack, afterall.

\--

After a few evenings of their playing an incredibly surreal game of house that became increasingly comfortable and familiar, Peter began whining, wanting to go to another of the local pubs for dinner. Turned out Peter Hale loved food more than anything else in life and was incredibly passionate on the subject of organic and farm to fork dining. More than once he called Derek up to check that his rooftop salad and herb garden at the loft was being watered and nurtured in his absence. Stiles eavesdropped in with a smile, enjoying listening to the candid half conversations as Peter checked in with Derek and the soft look on his face after hanging up the phone.

They settled in for the evening at a table in a nearby inn, Stiles perplexed by the lit log fire that had given the entire place a constant, somewhat smokey air, and the tavernous building was reminiscent of his favorite online roleplaying games. Like the cottage they were staying, there was a skeleton of beams and carpentry supporting bulging, lime plastered walls, tankards hanging from above them on every available beam, and even local characters who looked like they belonged to a different time period.

Stiles sat beside Peter, Chris directly opposite, the two of them always seeming to flank him. Even so, Stiles half expected the older pair to be playing footsie beneath the solid wooden table. Chris went to the bar to order food for them, Peter sinking back in his chair, old enough it creaked under his weight from the simple act as he draped an arm around the back of Stiles’ in a smooth, less than subtle display of belonging. Stiles tried not to smile and preen over the attention. It felt good. He never wanted it to end. He turned away, wet his lips and pressed them together to try keep himself from giggling.

“Enjoying yourself, sweetheart?” Peter’s voice inflicted in a saccharine way all too telling. Stiles briefly wrinkled his nose, but couldn’t hold back his ridiculous smile as he turned back to look at Peter.

“Yeah, shame about the company though.” Stiles chortled to himself, but let out a quiet cry of surprise at the quick pinch of fingers and short nails at the back of the neck. He squirmed in his seat, whining pathetically as he reached up, cupping the nape of his hair, rubbing there to chase away the tingling sensation Peter left behind. “Mean.”

“You love it.” Peter said gruff and certain, lighting that fire in the pit of Stiles’ belly that made him want to squirm all the more. With the soft, warm glow from the half molten candles on the table and quiet thrum of diners and drinkers in the background, the moment held the impression of a date, of intimacy. It was too easy to get swept up in the moment and be bold.

“Yeah,” he breathed out in agreement, feeling daring and holding his gaze on those brilliant blue eyes. Peter already knew by his scent and his heartbeat, but there was something empowering and exciting at admitting it out loud. He’d never been afraid of Peter exactly, but he’d been able to hold back his curiosity and attraction… Until he’d gotten to know the man better. It had been easy to paint Peter as a monster given his actions when he'd been unwell before he'd died, but finally, Stiles was learning who the real Peter was. The Peter that Chris had fallen in love with.

He wanted a taste of what Peter and Chris had- wanted a little more of the gentleman that Peter had been in their short time together since arriving in France. He was emboldened by the way Peter’s smugness drained away with honest wonder, causing his gaze to drop, longing after Stiles’ lips. He licked them on instinct, just a subtle peek of his tongue to leave them glossy and to tempt, wanting them kissable in case Peter did dare make a move. He was ready. So ready. And it was such a terrible idea... but part of that thrilling thought of something forbidden while entirely safe was so appealing. It felt a good, exciting kind of risk to take.

“Too bad Chris would probably put an arrow through your heart if you touched a minor, huh? Although, like you said, I'm not a minor here. Right?” Stiles tested, curious and feeling daring. He lowered his voice a fraction: “Think he’d be jealous?”

There was a touch of genuine concern there. Not that he wanted to ruin things between Chris and Peter, whatever the hell was going on with those two when Stiles headed off to bed at night… but he could feel something had sparked between them and he wanted to chase that feeling of admiration, adorement. The last thing he really wanted to do was hurt Chris, but as Peter leaned forward a fraction further, a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Who of?” Peter flashed his teeth, pearly and perfect, delighted in the way he set Stiles’ heart racing, his mind reeling with the implication that maybe Chris might be jealous of Peter kissing him. He gaped, but before he could say anything foolish, Peter spoke again, quiet and reasonable. 

“You’re definitely a young man and not a boy now, Stiles. Besides, there's only a few months until your birthday and it's not as if you've broken the law before with good reason." Peter chuckled under his breath. "After all you've been through, I think you can make sensible choices about your own relationships. And besides, Christopher and I are--” Peter came to an abrupt halt, turning his head away, eyes forward as he focused sharply on something across the room as if he’d forgotten Stiles entirely.

“Uh? Rude!”

Stiles squinted in disbelief, turning in his chair, grasping at the table as he did so and leaned in. He’d been so close to either a denial or a confession, or at least a somewhat decent conversation about it.

“You and Chris are what? What, Peter!? Oh my god! I swear, you’re trying to kill me with your blatant flirting and your wild sexcapades every night and-”

“Hush!”

“Don’t shush me! I saw you bo--”

“ _Wait_. I’m trying to listen.” Peter gently reached out and laid his hand lightly over Stiles’ arm. The tenderness with which is was done shut Stiles up immediately, even as his mouth hung open.

Peter was eavesdropping, staring at Chris and a man at the bar, a local like everyone else it appeared, with a good decade or two on Chris. Stiles was terrible with judging ages. His eyes darted between Peter and the man at the bar. The situation felt tense rather abruptly and not in a fun way.

“Are you jealous?”

Peter snorted, head jerking back slightly as he half smiled. Cocky bastard. That was a ‘no’ then. 

Stiles watched the stranger talking to Chris, who looked surly and he decided from Chris’ stance that it was nothing to be jealous about. Which made him wonder what Peter was listening to. Had he been tuned in on Chris the entire time? Was that something Peter did to him when he was around the loft?

“What are they saying?” Stiles asked as he refocused, shuffling his chair closer. Peter’s hand had drifted past his wrist, laying half covering the back of Stiles’ spindly hand. Very nearly snuggled into Peter, the gentle touch, being able to so openly watch his expression… his heart was racing, bursting into a full gallop as Peter turned back to him, face close enough for Stiles to notice the faintest of freckles there, lifted out by the sun.

The breath left Stiles as he felt a shared expectancy, the sharp potentiality in the shared air between them to breach the distance and _kiss_.

His heart thundered on, his breath quickening, silently willing Peter to move, to do something… to grab him and kiss him breathless to make Chris notice him, to finally satisfy an age of frustrating feelings and thoughts he’d harboured over Peter.

After a long few moments of neither of them moving, Peter took a deep breath, looking… torn, still desperate, but before the words left his lips, Stiles knew the kiss wasn’t happening, even though Peter clearly wanted it to.

The grave words: “A body was found,” killed the mood instantaneously from across the table. 

Stiles sat back, raising his brows and then sensed the tall figure at the opposite side of them table.

Chris stood there, a dark, grim shadow, his lips tight behind his ragged beard and his eyes looking steely as they caught the flicker of the soft candlelight from the table below.

A curse very nearly slipped from Stiles’ mouth, but he was too mortified to even voice it. He wasn’t sure the thought of a murderer was quite as terrifying as having angered or hurt Chris Argent. He didn’t dare look at Peter, staring up at Chris like a deer in headlights.

“A body torn in half and left in the square for all to see as a message.” Chris explained, then dragged out his chair, dropping into it hard, maintaining a rigidity to his posture and a cutting look in his eye that moved across the room and landed anywhere but Peter and Stiles.

“Cut in half?” Stiles echoed, trying to soothe his anxiety with a tantalizing case instead. “How? Hunters?” He glanced around the room, as if he might sense something amiss in a place that felt entirely foreign to him to begin with.

“They said an animal attack.” Chris said tight lipped. Stiles’ stomach plummeted. “A spiral carved into the chest.”

“Werewolves.” Peter decided, Chris grunted and gave a grim nod. “It’s a universal code.” He explained to Stiles, sensing a question. “Stands to reason.” He tugged out his rickety wooden chair and settled back in at their table.

“But werewolves don’t go around cutting people in half, right? That’s a hunter thing to do.” Stiles folded his arms on the table, huddling in conspiratorially, even though they didn’t appear to be at risk of being overheard. Chris finally shared a look with Peter and Stiles felt anxiety and doubt gnawing at his innards. “Isn’t it? Derek and Scott told me. That’s how Kate drew Derek back. And Gerard--” he cut himself off in fear of upsetting Chris further, but apparently that was something he’d made peace with. Yeah, he could see in Chris’ face he was aware of what Gerard was capable of doing to supernatural people. Stiles left it at that.

Chris sighed and softened, more concerned about the murder and potential feral or scheming werewolves than Peter and Stiles flirting, or the crimes of his relatives. He seemed at his best when he was focused in the moment, his attention occupied with helping others and looking forward. Stiles wondered if it was maybe a good thing they had arrived in town.

“Maybe. There’s a much smaller population of werewolves out here though. There’s quite a large community of hunters or those who come from hunting families, especially out in the countryside. It’s difficult for them to slip by unnoticed. They’re far more underground than the werewolves back home and stick to the cities. They wouldn’t dare risk attacking someone out in the open like this.”

“So most likely scenario it’s a lone omega? Someone gone feral?” Stiles decided, feeling nowhere near as confident as he sounded. “And we can take care of one feral omega without a pack. Right?”

“No, an omega wouldn’t be stupid enough to make a statement like that alone. A feral omega would be butchering a victim and eating their innards, rather than making artwork of them.” Peter grimaced. “That was a spectacle. A spectacle intended for a particular audience. Maybe it was a pack of werewolves, but it seems unlikely they’d get by unnoticed too. For a lone werewolf, it’s far too much of a risk unless you have purpose. You have no idea how lucky I am to know an Argent to be able to walk around here freely. No way would I be walking the fields out here on my own, even at full strength. It’s suicidal. Werewolves go missing throughout Europe probably on a daily basis. They stick to safe areas.” Peter looked around the pub, looking as rattled as when they’d once been holed up discussing alpha packs descending on their territory. “If something’s about to kick off, I don’t think I want to stick around-” he looked meaningfully at Stiles. “-and you shouldn’t either.”

“Ah, but-”

“Peter’s right. If this really is some sort of territorial dispute, or a revenge threat like the spiral indicates, we need to get out of here. This isn’t our fight.” Chris nodded to Peter, their minds apparently decided. It made Stiles feel belittled, rather than cared for.

“Hey! No! If people are being murdered, then we can’t duck out. We at least have a clue what’s going on here. I bet half these people don’t even realize they’re living among supernatural creatures. We can’t leave them undefended- and I bet if this is a feral omega out of their mind, then something happened to make them that way- remember Peter?” Stiles gestured to his perfect example. “We’re probably the best people to help out in a situation like this.”

“He has a point.” Peter hummed.

Chris looked less than thrilled, almost angry which was a scary thought in itself.

“I know the last thing you want is for somebody else to get hurt, especially with how fresh things are with Allison, but she wouldn’t have packed her bags and left either!” Stiles hissed, knowing he was being too fiery, too insensitive with his manipulative reasoning. “Isn’t she the one who rewrote your family code of honor? Isn’t this _your_ family territory to protect?”

“ _Enough_ , Stiles.” Chris’ voice cut through, strained but stern. Silence fell between them for a moment, while the man weighed up their options. “We’re not going to talk about this again tonight. We’re going to eat, make our way back to the house, then make sure we’re packed in case we need to leave tonight or in the morning. Hopefully this is a lone omega and other hunters can take care of the problem, but this could very easily be somebody that isn’t happy with a werewolf being in town that’s trying to set one up.” There was a quaver in Chris’ voice, a flicker of fear and raw loss in his eyes even as anger and logic carried him through. “This is my call to make here. In this pack, I’m the alpha. It’s not a risk I’m willing to take.”

_Oh._

It hit Stiles hard, a pleasant surprise.

More specifically, Chris wasn’t willing to risk _Peter._

Stiles felt his heart flutter on Peter’s behalf, wondering when was the last time somebody had openly expressed that sentiment with him. It was difficult to read from his expression, but Stiles caught the bob of his thick throat and the way he dropped his eyes- were they slightly bluer than usual, or was that a trick of the light? Ducking his chin almost shyly, he turned his head away across the bar as if he hadn’t heard a thing.

“Don’t go sentimental on me now, Christopher.” Peter mumbled when he looked back, his voice so softened and wolfish his words were slurred in the sweetest way. Stiles half expected him to be purring around his fangs his voice had such a lovely, velvety quality to it. It was the most humble and genuine Stiles had ever known Peter to be and it was an incredibly good look on him.

Suddenly Stiles didn’t want to be the one Peter was kissing.

Why were the right things never straightforward? His heart ached on behalf of them both, but it was clear from their stiffness and the stretching silence that neither of them was about to make a move in front of Stiles- or maybe they were still withholding some final vulnerability from each other.

“Idiots,” Stiles thought aloud, unable to hold his tongue he was so frustrated, shaking the warming thoughts away that made his stomach flutter.

“Okay. We prepare to leave if we have to. What about if it’s too late for that?” Stiles piped up more assertively, wanting there to be at the very least a single backup plan.

“Then we can arm ourselves. I have contacts still. I’m still an Argent.”

“Mm, Christopher is quite the celebrity around here. He can get us a table almost anywhere when we dine out. It’s like dating royalty.” Peter purred, finding his sense of humor as his tongue unstuck. “Isn’t this near to where your family found a name for themselves as well?”

“Woah, really?” Stiles perked up. “The Beast of Gévaudan legend? So this really is Argent territory, huh? I read Allison’s paper on that. It was really cool.”

“She did that?” Chris asked quietly in surprise, smiling to himself to have learned something new and treasuring it quietly for a moment. Stiles gave a smaller smile back, nodding again. He’d ask their teacher for the paper, hopefully it was still filed away somewhere. He knew Allison had been especially proud of that work.

Chris cleared his throat. “You’re right. I think it’s probably grossly exaggerated for the history books. An alpha beast at most and hey, you took on one of those yourself.” Chris gave a slight wave towards Peter, who gave a smooth chuckle.

“More than once. Stiles managed to keep himself, Allison and their friends alive and unbitten an entire night. He’s quite the expert.” Peter cooed, somehow completely devoid of irony. “Isn’t that right, bright spark?”

Stiles balked under the attention.

“Yeah, but… if this is an alpha beast, shouldn’t we- I don’t know- have some back up?”

“And we will, but I don’t believe any of us are in a position for a confrontation right now.” Chris admitted, looking between them, weighing them up in their current state.

Silence ticked over for a few seconds, the crackling of fresh coal on the fire filling the void.

“I don’t mean to frighten you, but I think we need to be realistic here. Even if this is a straightforward, isolated incident, I don’t trust myself to handle it. I-” Chris lifted his hands from where they’d been on the table, for a fraction of a moment, but Stiles caught the way they trembled. “I can’t risk it. The right thing to do would be to let someone else deal with it- and I can make sure that happens.” Chris cleared his throat, steadying himself, the chink in his armor suddenly invisible once more, making Stiles’ chest tighten at how easily he managed to mask it.

This time Peter did reach out, their fingers finding one another’s and clutching on for a moment.

“Alright. We’ll go with whatever you think is best, Christopher.” Peter agreed.

“Yeah,” Stiles gave a short nod, eyes prickling. “Totally your call. I trust you.”

Chris pulled in a deep breath, drawing himself back together, so handsome and stoic it made Stiles want to kiss the worry lines of his brow away.

“Then we’ll leave tomorrow.”

They ate their dinner with an uneasy quiet falling over their table, Chris’ brow heavy and Peter hypervigilant- eavesdropping for clues Stiles guessed. There was nothing more to report however. Before they left, Stiles excused himself for the bathroom, knowing after a few drinks, the trip through uneven country lanes would be hell on his bladder.

He’d barely made it beyond the length of the bar when a woman with wild, red and silver spun curls tumbling to cover much of her brittle frame, seized his arm. Instinctively he tried to pull back, alarmed, fingers curling into a fist as his body went rigid. She soothed him with something in hushed French, twisting his fist like a doorknob and opening up the fingers of his palm.

“Woah there. Hey. What--”

“Vous avez la étincelle de feu,” she ran the dry tips of her fingers down each segment of knuckle to his own fingertips before letting him go. She looked impressed, Stiles wondered if she was complimenting his hands, but it left him feeling uneasy. His brain short-circuited and every word of French he’d learned from Ms Morrell over the years vanished.

“Que fais-tu avec lui?” Chris was suddenly there, cutting in-between them to rescue Stiles, who withdrew his hand to his own chest, eyes wide and going between the two.

“Vous etes un Argent... Oui?” The woman squinted at Chris’ face with uncertain recognition and then broke into a smile. “Permisse moi…” she reached for Chris’ large hand with her dainty one.

“Pour quoi?” Chris frowned, but let the woman take her unfurl it, dragging her thumbs over the rough, scarred pads of his his palm, then drew a bitten nail across the middle, drawing a loud breath and placing a hand against her chest.

“Votre ligne de coeur… s'arrête.” She tapped her jagged nail to his palm, emphasizing her discovery.

Whatever she was relaying to Chris, Stiles darted between them, that morbid look glazing over his expression and fear welling up in her eyes as she drew a cross for him over her own chest, muttering what sounded like a prayer, a blessing for someone cursed.

“Je vais mourir?” Chris saw something in her face and lifting his head in recognition mumbled: “Es-tu une banshee?”

“Pas _ta vie_ ,” Reaching forward and clucking her tongue, the woman tapped against Chris’ breast, where his beating heart was caged, looking as mystified as Stiles felt, but completely oblivious to the discomfort of the two Americans. “Ton _coeur_.” She added, hushed in some form of commiseration. It left Stiles chilled. He recognized that look of glassy-eyed fear from Lydia of knowing something dreadful was written in the stars, looming closer.

“Uh, what was that _en anglais_ for us Americans?” Stiles blurted out, his mind barely catching onto the odd word with her thick accent. “You’re a banshee? What’s ‘ton coeur’ mean? His what?”

“Alright, you old hag,” Peter’s booming voice carried over the tense moment, catching Stiles by the back of his collar and giving him a tug to get his feet moving- they crossed, Stiles nearly stumbling over his own two legs were it not for Peter dragging him insistently. “That’s quite enough from you, you utter lunatic.”

Planting a hand on Chris’ shoulder too, Peter urged him to turn, the three of them all as eager as one another to make a quick getaway from the banshee and her omens.

“Loup-garou!” Was shouted in accusation after him, prompting Peter to pick up the pace.

“Shit.” He grabbed Stiles more securely by the arm, marching him through the old barn door entranceway and outside with a wider, quicker stride that Stiles hurried to match. “Banshees. Why does it always have to be _banshees_?”

Stiles snorted with a smile: “Indiana Jo- Oh! Ow! Okay, okay!”

He was unceremoniously bundled into the car and they set off without further delay, Chris warning everyone to be packed for prompt departure for Paris in the morning. They couldn’t stay. Stiles dared to ask whether it was because of what the banshee had said.

A quick search on his phone, once he had an internet connection again, revealed what the banshee had been talking about that had left him looking as gray and distant as a ghost.

His heart.

Stiles suspected the banshee had predicted Chris’ death.

__

The banshee’s prophetic outburst had left a stale mood in the air, Chris heading straight to pack their cases, while Peter declared they still needed to eat and heading straight for the kitchen. Stiles had never known anyone- including himself- to eat so much. He guessed it was part of why Peter was built as solidly as a tank.

After an indecisive few minutes lingering in the living room, debating sending a text home but deciding against it, Stiles eventually tracked Peter’s footsteps into the kitchen and slotted beside him at the counter to be given the task of preparing some vegetables. Peter was preparing food for all of them rather than just himself and the quietly generous gesture put Stiles at ease with a smile as he set to work.

Each time Stiles attempted to bring up the subject of the banshee he was met with a rumbled tone, Peter’s jaw tight where he seemed to be gritting down those thick, sharp fangs, his eyes a shade too bright to be human. He had a terrible poker face with his temper and Stiles found it strange that included worry, even if it came across smoldering hot still. Stiles dropped the subject, helping prepare the vegetables that went into the griddle pan with oil and something herbaceous that seemed to rejuvenate the werewolf. Stiles could seem him relaxing with each passing moment spent laboring over their dinner, on providing something for his fellow diners.

Stiles had to wonder if Peter viewed him and Chris as packmates. As a lover, Chris surely meant _something_ to Peter, but he kept everything close to his chest and usually defended sensitive matters with sharp wit before revealing anything.

“You okay?” Stiles tried instead, seeing the way Peter’s brow had remained deeply furrowed, full of unspoken concern. His hand reached out unbidden, resting on a very solid bicep where Peter was nudging the contents of the pan with a spatula. He stilled and looked across at Stiles, his expression easing up.

“Yes, fine.” Peter muttered, looking away, settling the spatula aside. Instead of taking his hand away Stiles reached with his other hand, taking hold of Peter’s arm gently and stepped in towards his side with determination.

“Peter,” he pushed, earning a short scoff and an arched brow. “It’s alright to be worried. It’s good that you care. It’s nice to actually know you give a damn about someone other than yourself.” Stiles mumbled, giving a small shrug and looking away embarrassed. “I had you pegged as a selfish asshole and a bad guy for so long.”

“Maybe I am the big, bad wolf.” Peter shot back, shrugging his arm from Stiles’ hold and turning to challenge him. “I’ve done terrible things.”

“Not to me.” Stiles pointed out, then grimaced slightly for show. “Well, not really. Anyway, it’s not that black and white. Seeing you actually care about Chris, it makes me like you more, makes me feel better that when you have done bad things… it’s probably from a good place.” Stiles glanced up through his lashes from where he’d been speaking to their shoes. “Does that make sense?”

The look on Peter’s face was full of surprise, turning to soft wonder that made Stiles grow hot and he tugged at his collar nervously.

“C’mon,” he sighed, rolling his shoulders back and his eyes to the beams of the ceiling. “You and Chris have something intense. I’m not an idiot. And then earlier you and I nearly…” he swallowed down the thought, the words, rubbing at his arm, trying to shake the way Peter’s gaze made him feel. “What was that?”

“We nearly what?” Peter taunted, his grin too sharp for Stiles’ liking.

“You know what!” Stiles spluttered with heat prickling furiously across his face. “But you and Chris are… what, fucking? Dating? Frenemies with benefits? C’mon, I heard you the other night! I’m not stupid and I’m definitely not a kid.”

“Mm.” Peter hummed noncommittally, not answering which, playfully pretending to consider as if each option was likely. Stiles squinted in disbelief and scoffed.

“But you two really seem to care about each other. No wonder you never let anyone see you both together. You’re so into one another. It’s kinda gross. You’re like an old, married couple.” Stiles scrunched his nose slightly, looking away to the pan, hating that despite his frustration bubbling over, Peter could probably hear any slight stutter of his heart.

“Are you jealous?” Peter asked after a quiet moment and tipped his head to one side in consideration, ignoring the way Stiles tsked. “Or is this something you want too?” A gentle bump of Peter’s knuckles beneath his chin drew his head up, where they locked eyes. “I care about you both. You do know that, don’t you?” There was a soft, sweet look on Peter’s face Stiles didn’t recognize that made him quiet and soothed his wracked nerves as much as it made his stomach flutter.

“I like you, Stiles. I really do. You know, I’ve enjoyed watching you flourish, even without the bite. Your transformation, of the entire pack’s, has been the most magnificent. You have the prettiest wit and have grown into such an incredible young man.” Peter sighed, paused and smiled affectionately at him. “I still pine after you, in a sense, after what might have been. What still could be too.” Peter admitted, eyes moving from Stiles’ down to his lips briefly. “And I eagerly wait to see what you’ll become. You fascinate me, Stiles. You’re incredibly attractive to me for so many reasons.”

Peter’s eyes were on the verge of glowing, Stiles was sure. They were the purest _blue_. So very pretty and Stiles, as bashful as he was about so many blunt compliments, couldn’t look away.

“Oh.” Stiles said weakly, mouth hanging open where he couldn’t form words. Peter let out an even heavier breath and shook his head, making Stiles’ stomach sink.

“But it would be easier for both of you to not make something of my affection. I’m a wild thing, with a fickle heart, I can’t commit- even to my own pack. As you said- I’m a bad man.”

“I don’t believe that. Not really. Not anymore.” Stiles blurted out, reached out to tug at the front of Peter’s shirt, drawing himself closer where Peter was too solid and steadfast to pull. “Chris doesn’t either.”

Peter looked genuinely lost for a moment, almost timid. Stiles brushed his hand aside, letting it fall to his cheek instead.

“We care about you too, not in spite of everything you’ve done, but because of all those things you’ve done and the choices you’ve made since. You’re… strong, capable, protective,” Stiles was cupping Peter’s face, thumbing over his features, drinking in how beautiful he was so close. “You’re such a deviously clever asshole…” he admitted breathlessly with a grin that made Peter laugh. “I like you because you make all the same choices I would because your heart is in the right place. I’m still your packmate, even without the bite. Always will be.”

They were inching together, Peter’s breath warm against his lips before they’d even kissed, making Stiles lick at his lips, eager to close the space at last.

“I bet you anything Chris likes you for all the reasons I do. We can both understand you as well as anyone possibly can.” Stiles’ heart ached and something must have soured his scent or his heartbeat must have told Peter something was wrong. “He really likes you and I don’t want him to lose you too, we can’t…”

“I’m not leaving him.” Peter insisted with a growl, arms suddenly wrapping around Stiles and dragging him flush against a very solid chest, the air leaving him in surprise. “I don’t plan on losing you either.” There was something fierce in Peter’s voice, a promise of some instinctive drive to keep his word.

Stiles made a weak noise as he clung to Peter, grasping at his hair as he was swept off his feet and their mouths met, hot and frantic for a taste of one another. Peter surged into the moment, Stiles melting into it, the glide of their tongues and slick brush of lips lighting something in his chest, making him keen into Peter’s mouth. They tugged at one another’s shirts, Peter’s hands all over Stiles as if trying to pull him nearer. It wasn’t until Stiles was panting they parted, eyes still shut and lingering at Peter’s lips for a few clumsy, messy kisses. Eventually, Peter was smiling too much for Stiles to keep it up and he drew back with hot cheeks.

As he opened his gaze, he made a soft sound, settling back onto his feet where he’d been drawn up on tiptoes somehow, despite them being near equal in height. Peter gradually relaxed his grip, hands settling to bracket Stiles’ slim hips until he was certain Stiles was steady.

“Huh.” Stiles drew his lip between his teeth and looked back at Peter with a smile that had the werewolf beaming as they stepped back from each other. Something warm and comfortable between them, some old tension finally settled for good. Stiles had to smother a quiet laugh behind his hand, his cheeks glowing with heat as Peter smile wide enough to make the corners of his eyes wrinkle fondly.

He was too much to resist. Stiles curled back around Peter’s side as he returned to work, occasionally turning his head with a low, wolfish sound if Stiles touched him in a certain way, or pressed his mouth, his nose, to Peter’s shoulder.

It wasn’t so bad if Chris and Peter weren’t exclusive, right?

Soon enough he returned, his pace slowing as he came through into the kitchen, seeing Peter with Stiles curled around him, chin hooked over his shoulder as he tried to assist with the cooking, gently bickering together.

Stiles drew back, alert, worried that what he’d done was all over his face- because how couldn’t it be? Chris only smiled, passing by meet them at the counter, helping to finish off the preparations.

Apparently Chris wasn’t concerned about his age, but the real tell was from the fleeting, heartaching looks he gave them, making Stiles blush.

“You look happy,” Chris noted. “It’s nice to see you smile again.”

What Stiles didn’t expect was the hands framing his face and for a second he thought Chris might kiss him.

He blamed Peter's cockiness being contagious after that kiss. 

Chris broke away far too quickly, leaving Stiles longing, but only slightly foolish for the hopeful though. He was in too good a mood to worry too much about his school boy yearning for something he was probably too young to be daydreaming about anyway.

Catching Peter’s eye, his knowing smirk made Stiles flustered enough to elbow him in the ribs.

“Shut up.”

__

After the initial panic, Chris having packed their luggage and Stiles stuffing what he’d unpacked back into his bags, Peter came upstairs to tell them he was cooking up the remainder of the perishable foods and they might as well get a good night’s sleep before they set out.

“It’s one night. I’m more than capable of defending you. I can stay up and keep watch on our surroundings, then sleep in the car while we drive to Paris.” Peter reasoned as he nudged gently sizzling pancetta and vegetables in the pan.

“Paris? We’re really going?” Stiles asked, a little in awe.

“It’s the nearest Argent property I’d be willing to take you to. The rest of the family are more along Gerard and Kate’s line of thinking- more stable- but they wouldn’t appreciate me bringing a werewolf into their homes. The apartment is empty right now. We can spend a few weeks there. Maybe head somewhere else before we go back to California.” Chris said glumly from where he was thumbing at his phone idly, no doubt trying to sort out their next steps.

Stiles trotted over, sliding into the refurbished pew beside Chris and pried the phone away from his hands. Chris heaved a sigh and gave him a dull look.

“We’re safe for one night. Whatever is going on has nothing to do with us, right? You already said somebody else is coming in to deal with it. So stop stressing. You’re making Peter twitchy.” Stiles grumbled, gesturing wildly to where Peter was at the stove, his muscles tight and flinching slightly at the accusation.

“He’s right, Chris. Your scent is terrible. You need a bath and a glass of wine.” Peter mumbled as he shot a glare over his shoulder before turning back to the pan, murmuring a slightly lower: “Maybe a massage...”

Stiles blushed and stretched out across the table to grab his glass of water, taking a deep gulp for something to do. When he realized Chris was watching him, he licked his lips clean and cleared his throat.

“So they said it was an animal attack. I looked it up and France doesn’t have that many wolves, but they’re out there... and I’m sure wild wolves aren’t capable of that kind of mark. I did wonder if forensically you can tell the difference between werewolf claws and wolf claws? Is supernatural forensics a thing? I mean, shouldn’t there be a branch of the FBI for that? Or am I going to have to be the person to do that?” Stiles huffed, making Chris raise his brows, almost impressed just from Stiles having a thought inclined towards helping that way.

“There are less than twenty shifters left in the world, Stiles, and they’re generally not the ones going around killing. They’re from the old packs that know to keep the peace, like the Hales.” Chris explained carefully, looking towards Peter, who was plating up.

“Actually there’s fewer than that. I’d guess a dozen shifters at most. We’re a dying breed… So to speak.” Peter sneered a pained smile as if there was some grim joke Stiles was missing out on.

“What do you mean?” Stiles perked up, settling upright as Peter sauntered over, the plates neatly stacked along his thick forearm. Once each plate was set in front of their places, he sunk into his seat and immediately went for his cutlery.

“Only a handful of werewolves ever have the ability of therianthropy, there are incredibly specific criteria that don’t appear to follow an exact recipe either.” Peter grimaced, some long frustration of unknowing there.

“Like what?” Stiles couldn’t bare an unsolved mystery, but it was the best sort of topic of conversation for a candlelit dinner he could hope for he thought as he shoveled sautéd mushrooms and tomatoes into his mouth.

“The potentiality of shifting is seen as sacred in our culture.” Peter explained after a moment, his attention down on his plate mostly, as if there was something he was ashamed of that Stiles wasn’t privy to. “Only someone born a werewolf might achieve a true full-shift without it being some sort of mirage or forced abomination. I’ve read conception must be under certain conditions, achieved in the shift, under a certain moon… but much of that has been disproved. It appears to be down to the individual.”

“Huh.”

“It’s also a rite of passage. In ancient were cultures around the world, we see packs that cremate their dead and provide the skeleton of a wolf alongside the burial, and many interpret this as the first interactions between druids, or shamans, and werewolf packs. Sparks helping to provide their packs with a new form once they have passed on, perhaps even the ability of rebirth.”

“Right, because you came back from the dead. Old zombie wolf. So couldn’t you learn to? And what about your comatose state? Is that why you could become the Alpha beast?” Stiles had too many ideas and questions and so little made sense with the supernatural. He could see how Peter- someone who this directly affected- would be so frustrated by the lack of real science and facts about his own existence.

“Precisely. It seems death is the trigger for the ability. Or at least partial, temporary splitting of the soul and body. There’s something there that allows born werewolves to tap into something other werewolves are unable to. Something we evolved from, perhaps.” Peter wondered aloud, nudging and rolling a grilled cherry tomato around his plate with his fork.

“But what about your alpha shift? I mean, you definitely weren’t human or wolf… What happened there?” Stiles asked slowly, not sure how to ask without being his usual blunt self.

“I hadn’t died. I was comatose. My soul never entirely left from what I can tell, damaged though it may be, so I was in a... warped state. My mind was corrupted and my body took that form. Not quite in limbo, but at the edge of it, where worlds distort. Perhaps the death or trigger requires some sort of sacrifice, some sort of protective pack instinct that comes with such an act and… I don’t think I quite managed that.” Peter’s voice shrank, unusually quiet and he rested his knife and fork down against the rim of his plate.

“But almost?” Stiles asked, head cocking slightly with a frown.

There was a pause, Peter’s eyes dropped down, unreadable but distant. Stiles put down his knife and reached out, touched Peter’s hand tentatively. When Peter didn’t flinch, he stroked his fingers forward, until he could curl them loosely over Peter’s broader hand.

“Peter?”

When the werewolf looked up again his gaze went from Stiles to Chris. Whatever he saw in Chris’ face had him resigning, sighing as he prepared himself.

“The difficulty with trauma is it plays tricks with one’s memory. Things trickle back in pieces. Snippets of events, the raw and subtle feelings, rather than the whole picture. My mind and memories are fractured, and I’m only now beginning to be able to put the pieces back together.”

Peter’s eyes darted over the grain of the table, his fingers curled and Stiles felt the subtle tremor there.

“Hey,” he said hushed and gentle, leaning in as he set his fork down on the table so he could grab for Peter’s other hand. “It’s okay. You don’t have to go back there.”

Peter stared into his eyes, drawing a full breath and settling again as he released it. His fingers curled as he took a better hold of Stiles’ hand in return. Stiles knew that feeling of his memories being scattered and coming into focus one by one.

“Peter,” Chris spoke, his voice deep and soothing, drawing Peter’s attention immediately. “It’s alright. You can tell us.”

They stared at each other for a long moment and then Peter nodded, drawing a breath.

“It wasn’t until I saw her looking so fragile and weak while she was on her deathbed that I recalled being in that same awful situation before. I feared I might lose her and I could almost taste the smoke and burning flesh in the air… and I was overcome with the knowledge that this time, I might not be able to save her.”

Stiles frowned, his heart aching at the look of stone-cold fear in Peter’s eyes. He was on the verge of being back there, in that awful memory. His eyes were unsteady and unfocused on the table for a moment. So Stiles gave another gentle pump of his grip around Peter’s hand to remind him he was there, bringing Peter’s attention back immediately.

“Who, Cora?”

Peter gave a solemn nod, looking up at Stiles, finding something in his eyes that had him drawing a shuddering breath, calming him before he pressed on. Stiles wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Peter look so vulnerable, or thought of him as so strong before.

“I don’t know how I could possibly forget, but she was skinny enough I managed to push her through the basement and forced her through the bars and the barrier.” Peter shook his head in bewilderment. “And I remember what I did hurt her. _Badly._ It hurt me to do it. I had to break and dislocate her bones in order to get her through…There was mountain ash... but when the barrier broke, it was too late for the rest of us. I told her to run and not to stop for anything. That was that. I don’t remember much in the final moments. After she was safe, I…” Peter’s head shook ever so slightly, at a loss.

The grip on Stiles’ hands was vice-like, but he couldn’t bring himself to break away, and he wasn’t sure which pain the tears at the rim of his vision were sprung from.

He couldn’t remember Peter ever being selfless, but he remembered hearing from Deaton how Scott’s motivations to purely save his emissary and packmate had been enough to shatter the forcefield around him. Of course Peter loved Cora- his pack and family- enough to save her when he could have been seeking a way to survive himself. He’d been there at the hospital as Peter had tended to her and fought to protect her from the alpha pack. He’d never been so sure Peter was trustworthy and good as that night.

“Did Cora ever find out what you did? Does she remember?” Stiles asked, sniffing and blinking back tears.

Peter scoffed, rolling his eyes with one of those vicious, somehow self-deprecating grins that was rare from him.

“Of course she doesn’t know. Or if she does, it’s blocked from her memories too. It wouldn’t surprise me if that fleabag of an alpha she sided with afterwards took it away to separate her from the Hale pack further.” Peter snarled more bitterly.

“Well, you should tell her. Even if it’s difficult for you both, she should know.” Stiles insisted, giving Peter’s hands a firm squeeze in return.

“As if she’d ever believe _me_.” Peter said, voice dripping with venom. He slipped his hand from out of Stiles’, rising from his seat to head straight for the last bottle of wine left out on the counter, agitation clear through his tense frame. “She doesn’t trust me. Not even Derek trusts me these days. It doesn’t matter if I saved Cora, because I killed their sister, and I would have killed Derek too if he’d gotten in the way. I can’t be trusted.”

“But you’re healed now! You weren’t in your right mind!” Stiles blurted out, arms thrown wide, glancing towards Chris who was imploring him to keep his mouth shut. “I don’t believe you’d kill Cora. Not if you saved her in the first place.”

He watched the back of Peter’s head, down, his shoulders shifting as cups and packets clinked and rustled.

“Well, it’s all over now. The Hale Pack is no more, and I didn’t come back having made whatever sacrifice was necessary to earn my wolf skin. I’m over it. I’ve accepted that this is my third, undeserving chance but my bridges have- quite literally- already burned.”

There was a harsh finality to the words that made Stiles want to snap back and keep pushing, but Chris raised his hand slightly towards Stiles, leaving his own spot to pass by Peter. Chris touched Peter’s neck gently, stroking downward over the knobs of his spine in a motion that had Peter’s shoulder blades sliding lower, the tension melting away. Stiles heard the faintest sound come away with Peter’s breath, something peculiarly feeble and sweet.

“You’re more wolf than any were I’ve known.” Chris reassured, leaning over his shoulder, the soft sound of lips parting reaching Stiles where he couldn’t quite see it. “You don’t need to convince Stiles or me you can be trusted, or that you’ll take care of us. You already do. You know I wouldn’t allow you anywhere near Stiles if I didn’t trust you implicitly. We’re pack, Peter. You, me, Stiles.”

That sentiment was one Stiles had never felt applied to him with Derek, Scott, and the others. Not really. But at last, it had finally begun to take meaning. They were a pack of three. An equal shared belief in one another and a wholehearted readiness to support and care for each other.

Stiles deflated, feeling exhausted and relieved all at once as he sagged against the uncomfortable, rigid back of the wooden pew. He watched Chris slide closer to Peter, his palm running up from between Peter’s shoulders to the thick nape of his neck into his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp.

Chris whispered something, bumping his nose to Peter’s cheek and nuzzled there. Stiles didn’t need to hear it to know what had been said. Peter turned around, hands settling on Chris’ waist as he leaned in to kiss him, slow and sweet.

“Come on. Finish your dinner. It’s too good to go to waste.” Chris said firmly, giving Peter’s backside a gentle tap as he peeled away. The mood lightened and Peter finished pouring himself a drink before rejoining them. Stiles and Chris were already halfway through their plates by the time Peter came back, interrupting the quiet chink of knives and forks on china.

“I was thinking when we get to Paris, I could take you clothes shopping, Stiles.” Peter announced with a bright tone, as if nothing had happened. “I’d like to see you in something other than flannel and hoodies.”

“Hey!” Stiles objected with a pout, but then Chris leaned into him, voice lowered to a resigned, but empathic tone.

“Who do you think bought me all of those v-necks and sweaters?”

__

Despite the light end to the evening, there was still a heaviness in the air. Stiles had felt it almost every night since Allison’s death, but it the sense of dread and loss felt especially pregnant that evening. After hours of unsettled sleep, he crept downstairs, hoping after a glass of water and stretching his legs, he might be able to relax again. As he reached the first landing, Chris appeared in the doorway of his bedroom, pausing there as Stiles lingered on the landing.

“Can’t sleep either?” Chris asked, voice hoarse. He sounded wrecked and Stiles felt the tension in his chest that usually came with grief. He nodded, but then realized Chris not might have been able to see him properly in the darkness.

“No. I was just stretching my legs.” Stiles explained, hovering. As easy as they’d been around each other, suddenly asking for that contact became difficult. Maybe because he was only in a thin t-shirt and shorts… and Chris looked only to be in a shirt and boxers.

He also remembered how Peter and Chris had been together that one night, and he yearned for just a small sliver of that intimacy. He wasn’t sure it was his place to ask though, or even if Chris wanted to reciprocate in that way. It wasn’t even about sex, he just didn’t want to be alone, didn’t want Chris to be alone.

As Chris gently cleared his scratchy throat, Stiles was stirred out of his thoughts, drawn back to realize he’d been standing there for a while.

“You want to sleep in here tonight?” Chris offered.

Stiles’ heart leapt and he shifted on his feet, giving a deeper nod.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

There was nothing more Stiles wanted in that moment and he went to Chris immediately, where his hand was taken in a larger, rougher palm that guided him through the rustic wooden panel door and inside.

Stiles gently nudged the creaky door behind them, but didn’t shut it. It was more spacious and he could see more elaborate, dark stained wood beams overhead, some sort of hanging light and straight ahead, a sprawling, antique framed bed with a mess of sheets and pillows flung about the place.

Chris dropped onto the bed, releasing Stiles’ hand as he slid across, tugging at the sheets to draw them back and tidying the pillows. Sitting on the edge, Stiles swung his legs up and shuffled over, until they were lying side by side. There was a rustle of fabric as Chris drew over one of the lighter sheets, bunched in his hand, and as it settled, he left his arm curled over Stiles. He placed a hand over Chris’ arm, stroking back and forth as he wiggled and nestled down into the pillows, head turned towards Chris.

They remained there a while, curled close, Stiles listening to the gentle sound of Chris’ breath as he felt it ghost warm across his skin.

“Thank you.” Stiles mumbled one he was relaxed, only to receive a deep, grunt of a response as Chris snuggled closer, tightening his hold across Stiles’ slim waist as if afraid of losing him in the enormous bed somehow.

Stiles dozed off eventually, comforted by the weight of Chris’ arm and the sound of his steady, light snores. That sense of exhaustion that had been sitting heavily on his chest felt lifted somewhat, purely by having Chris and Peter nearby. They were good to him- good for him- and something finally felt right for the first time in his life.

__

Somebody was teasing through Stiles’ hair. Slow, clever fingers curled around his locks from the root and twisted lightly, stirring up his bed hair further. He groaned and stretched out, trying to nuzzle into the tingling sensation, fluttering his lashes and squinting up at a familiar face.

“Good morning, sweetheart.”

“Peter?” Stiles frowned, but screwed his eyes shut as he stretched and turned towards him, settling back down once more.

After a moment he scowled without opening his eyes.

“Didn’t say stop.”

Peter chuckled at that, brushing back through Stiles’ hair to smooth it back out again, before resuming the gentle twisting and combing that made Stiles purr deep and satisfied.

“Did you sleep well?” Peter asked, full of amusement.

“Mhm.”

“Chris is doing his morning yoga. There are croissants and pastries in the oven if you’re hungry.”

“Oh,” Stiles stirred at the promise of sugary, flaking pastries straight out of the antique range. “Thanks, Peter. Sounds good.” He sat up, rubbing at his eyes, then realized Peter had stopped playing with his hair, although he remained reclined on the bed, feet crossed at the ankles as he watched Stiles recover. “What?”

“You smell good.” Peter said with a smile that became more wolfish with each passing moment. “As does Chris. You’re perfect together.” With that, Peter slipped off the bed, sauntering towards the doorframe, where he paused and turned to look back at Stiles. “Chris usually showers straight after his yoga, if you wanted to join him. I can keep your breakfast warm.” Winking, he left Stiles with that thought, suddenly feeling incredibly and rudely awakened.

He threw himself out of bed and went to splash his face with cold water.

__

“I’ve been thinking about what you said.” Chris admitted, making Stiles look up from the pan au chocolate he’d torn in two.

“Wha-ff?” Stiles asked with a mouthful of pastry.

“Swallow before you speak, dear.” Peter rebuffed him, rolling his eyes.

Stiles did so and then stuck his tongue out in retaliation.

“We should help.” Chris declared, voice stern and grave in a way that cut through Stiles’ silliness.

“Oh.” Stiles perked up, dropping the pastry back to the plate and brushing his fingers off on his pants. He didn’t ask why. He knew why. That voice in the back of his head sounded a lot like Allison too. “Okay.” He started nodding, taking his mind away from Paris and focusing back on murder and claws and danger. “What do we do?”

“We hunt them down.” Peter answered for Chris, showing them a sharper grin than was humanly possible and giving a flash of cold, steel blue for effect.

“Always with the dramatics.” Stiles snorted and threw a chunk of pastry across the table at Peter, who caught it and popped it straight into his mouth.

__

Stiles had never been out tracking with Chris, but he found it wasn’t too dissimilar to their nature hikes in the previous days. Chris began explaining the basics of print tracking, which Stiles picked up on keenly, sharing excitedly what he knew from his dad’s own line of work.

“And we have Peter, so he’s kind of like having a sniffer dog too, right?” Stiles chirped, turning to look back at where Peter was stood a short way off between a copse of trees, still other than turning his head slowly.

“Yes, although I’m afraid I haven’t picked up on anything useful just yet. The only thing I can smell out of the ordinary is us.” Peter drawled, before picking off in a slight tangent to the path Chris and Stiles were walking. After watching him go, Stiles felt a light hand on his shoulder, turning back to Chris who gave him a reassuring smile.

“Let him go. He’ll come back to us. He’ll be safe.”

“Yeah, but he seems kind of distant today. Is it because I slept in your bed last night?” Stiles asked, following Chris in clambering over a fallen branch and almost losing his balance. He was offered a hand to steady himself luckily and he flashed Chris a brief, bashful smirk.

“Of course he’s not jealous. He sees it as pack bonding. If anything he’ll like that we’re covered in each other’s scent.”

“Oh, that’s really a thing.” Stiles said with surprise. He’d never felt that Scott or Derek had particularly minded how he smelled, but they’d once or twice commented when he reeked of anxiety. It had been something to be self-conscious about more than anything, like when Peter had convinced him to switch to a more natural deodorant and shampoo.

“Familiar scents are comforting, even to us humans.” Chris said matter of factly, which Stiles couldn’t argue with. He was familiar with the woodsy tang of Chris’ aftershave and the leather-spice of Peter’s. It had been part of what had lulled him to sleep.

“So it isn’t jealousy? I mean, he doesn’t think that we.... You know…” Stiles couldn’t help but fret. “I mean, you two are something. And Peter said it’s not a committed relationship, but I don’t want him thinking that we-”

“Stiles, breathe.” Chris turned and stopped him with firm hands on his shoulders and waited.

Stiles drew in a deep breath through his nose, held it, and blew out through pursed lips. He let himself stand there, gazing into Chris’ eyes a while, then looking around at the thick, leafy growth all around them, listening to the quiet song of birds and the rustle of wind moving between the trees.

“Peter’s protective of you, sure, but he trusts me with you. He knows I would never hurt you.” Chris said gently, sliding his hands up and down over Stiles’ arms, warming him where they were kept chilled in the shade of the woods.

Stiles bit his tongue, wondering if Chris just didn’t want him that way and Peter knew that. Werewolves were sensitive to scent, heartbeat, even the slightest dilation of pupils.

“Right.” Stiles said rather glumly, looking away before brushing aside Chris’ arm and marching on ahead. “Let’s keep going. We have a monster to hunt.”

__

They patrolled all day, Peter only returning when it was lunchtime, where he made sure Chris unpacked everything in his rucksack he’d prepared for their picnic. Then he was gone, slinking off between the trees without a word. Stiles assumed he was used to operating as a lone wolf, rather than as part of a pack, so tried not to take offense.

The hike left Stiles damp with sweat and frustrated, as they circled around the countryside and as close to the town as Chris dared, given that there could be hunters nearby.

“That was a waste of time and croissants.” Stiles grumbled as the three of them came back together along the far side of the grassy moat encircling the ruins of the château. “We could have been in Paris with ice cream on top of the Eiffel Tower or checking out the Mona Lisa in the Lou--”

“Chris.” Peter’s voice was hissed, harsh, something deep and primal rumbling underneath his voice that drew goosebumps along Stiles’ flesh.

They turned, seeing where Peter was stopped, staring across the gaping moat at the bleak masonry ahead. The exterior wall was mostly intact, crumbling in places, with vines and weeds embedded throughout, weaving their way up towards the fading light. The château cut an impressive silhouette as it grew darker, towering high and regal, skeletal and crumbling though it was, like something out of a horror film.

“Do you see it?” Peter asked, prowling up to the moat’s edge and looking over, scanning the overgrown pit quickly.

“I see it.” Chris said grimly, teeth grinding as he took in the wall ahead.

Stiles frowned, stepping forward until Peter reached an arm out, catching him before he went too close to the edge.

“Careful, sweetheart.” Peter said in the barest whisper, leaving a hand on Stiles’ arm.

Swallowing, he looked away from Peter and up towards the wall, as it slowly became apparent that some of the crumbling stone and cracks forking through the masonry weren’t what they seemed. There were fresh gouges in the stone, lines of cleaner, near-parallel scratches, and he could almost picture something leaping, embedding thick claws into the stone, before dragging itself up the château walls and over the top into the ruins beyond. Stiles could recall seeing something of that size and strength before, if slightly on the smaller size.

“What kind of werewolf has claws that thick?” Stiles said, trying to keep the quaver of his voice steady as he could manage. He looked to Peter, eyes round and worried, seeing a similar look of disbelief there.

He remembered the press of a large, padded hand of the Alpha beast Peter had been against the locker room door. Claws thicker than any other werewolves’. A true monster. Stiles’ blood had run cold thinking how those claws could have shredded him to pieces like they had the poor janitor. Seeing Peter fearful was enough for Stiles.

“We need to get out of here.” Chris tugged on Stiles’ other arm but Peter seemed rooted to the spot.

“Peter?” Stiles reached for him and pulled at his jacket, but he remained rooted to the spot.

“ _La Bête._ ” Peter snarled, his upper lip curling with a low rumble in his broad chest. Stiles smacked his front, shutting down the werewolf’s growl completely as he caught the scowl on the boy’s face.

“Peter, we have to go!” Chris was tugging at him insistently, but Stiles fought for another moment. “Peter!”

“Then _go._ ” Peter rounded on Stiles, giving him a firm shove back against Chris, who caught him in a tumble of flailing limbs.

Shock had made Stiles unsteady, but Chris was equally taken by surprise, gathering Stiles up and shielding him with a protective arm as he glared Peter down with a cutting, dark expression. Stiles was taken aback by the outburst and knew he could only blame the near full moon to a certain extent.

“Come on.” Chris took Stiles by the wrist and forcing his eyes away from Peter’s determined face, they ran.

Whatever had gotten into Peter, Stiles didn’t want to question it, as suddenly doubt gnawed at the apparently false sense of security of safety and pack he’d begun to feel.

He ran as fast as he could, half dragged by Chris whenever he stumbled on the uneven field and tripped up on thickets hidden amongst the tall grass, his legs burning and tensing the more he pushed himself. If Chris knew they had to run and hide, Stiles wasn’t going to question him. Some of them didn’t have claws and fangs, but Stiles doubted Peter’s would be enough to save him from a monster like that.

Peter didn’t care. He only cared about power, to the extent where he would be willing to risk his own life going up against a monster of myth and legend, whose name had echoed down through the centuries to become a name that struck fear into the hearts of all who heard it.

_The Beast._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincerest apologies for the wait. Beyond starting new jobs after graduating while trying to find time to finish my rewrites, I've had difficulty in returning to this fic due to the themes. Hope you all enjoyed the new chapter and know the next one won't be as long a wait as I'll be sharing in September.
> 
> Let me know how you found the story and seeing Stiles finally get some romance!

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter header dividers are by myself. I will be creating fanart for this fic as well.
> 
> I do not give permission for my work to be reposted without my consent.
> 
> I'm currently not seeking critique for this fic. It was written for my own entertainment and is unbeta'd.
> 
> Please leave kudos or a comment if you enjoyed. Thank you for reading!


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